- Invitation Status
- Look for groups
- Posting Speed
- Multiple posts per day
- One post per day
- Multiple posts per week
- One post per week
- Online Availability
- Changes all the time but I'm around more often than not
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Nonbinary
- Transgender
- Genres
- Scifi, Crime/detective, supernatural, apocalyptic, horror, magic realism, mystery, historical, Western(at points)
Malphas was a powerful demon. Many considered him a mighty prince of hell. He didn't really interact directly with anyone, but had 40 legions of demons at his command. He took sacrifices. He tricked people. He was feared, and ruthless, and overall not someone to be messed with. That's how he liked it. Or, it was how he liked it, for a while. Then something changed.
He didn't remember what- it was a long time ago, really, he couldn't be bothered to remember -but he wanted to turn over a new leaf. Do something else with his extremely long existence. Help people. Maybe it would be fulfilling. The only way to know was to try it.
So, he set himself up on earth. Lost the wings, the weird ass eyes, the horns, anything that made him stand out too much. He got an apartment, a job at the police station, the whole shabang. And honestly? It had been working out pretty well. He had resisted any summonings, and refused to really kill or seriously maim anyone.
Then, this dickhead came along.
God, he didn't even know his name, just that he led some sort of goddamn mafia in the city. Mal had been working the case for weeks, and nothing of significants had actually shown up. He could resort to using some sort of ability to help him, but....
Well, he wasn't really feeling inclined to.
So he was stuck doing it the old fashioned way. Good old pen, paper, and detective skills. It was taking a long time, but it would stop him from heading back down the old demonic road of horrors. It sucked, though. God, did it SUCK. He was tempted at points to pull something, but managed to stop himself each time.
Currently, he was hanging out in a bar, in a booth alone, papers spread out on the table. He was trying to make a connection, any connection, to anything he could. Something he could charge the guy with, and maybe a place to catch him at. It was getting him nowhere, though.
He was startled when a hand tapped his shoulder, nearly throwing his pen. He looked up, ready to snap at whoever it was, but it was simply the waitress. He settled down.
"You may want to clean this up, hon." She suggested, arms crossed as she looked down at his set up.
He raised an eyebrow "Why? No one's really sitting here. Not like it's fucking bothering someone."
"Oh, no, it's just a warning. You may have the wrong people seeing what you're up to." After that, she walked away.
She had a point, he supposed. He quickly stacked his papers into a pile, and tried to make it so no edges were sticking out. Then, he could stuff it into his bad with ease.
Maybe.
He didn't remember what- it was a long time ago, really, he couldn't be bothered to remember -but he wanted to turn over a new leaf. Do something else with his extremely long existence. Help people. Maybe it would be fulfilling. The only way to know was to try it.
So, he set himself up on earth. Lost the wings, the weird ass eyes, the horns, anything that made him stand out too much. He got an apartment, a job at the police station, the whole shabang. And honestly? It had been working out pretty well. He had resisted any summonings, and refused to really kill or seriously maim anyone.
Then, this dickhead came along.
God, he didn't even know his name, just that he led some sort of goddamn mafia in the city. Mal had been working the case for weeks, and nothing of significants had actually shown up. He could resort to using some sort of ability to help him, but....
Well, he wasn't really feeling inclined to.
So he was stuck doing it the old fashioned way. Good old pen, paper, and detective skills. It was taking a long time, but it would stop him from heading back down the old demonic road of horrors. It sucked, though. God, did it SUCK. He was tempted at points to pull something, but managed to stop himself each time.
Currently, he was hanging out in a bar, in a booth alone, papers spread out on the table. He was trying to make a connection, any connection, to anything he could. Something he could charge the guy with, and maybe a place to catch him at. It was getting him nowhere, though.
He was startled when a hand tapped his shoulder, nearly throwing his pen. He looked up, ready to snap at whoever it was, but it was simply the waitress. He settled down.
"You may want to clean this up, hon." She suggested, arms crossed as she looked down at his set up.
He raised an eyebrow "Why? No one's really sitting here. Not like it's fucking bothering someone."
"Oh, no, it's just a warning. You may have the wrong people seeing what you're up to." After that, she walked away.
She had a point, he supposed. He quickly stacked his papers into a pile, and tried to make it so no edges were sticking out. Then, he could stuff it into his bad with ease.
Maybe.