Placeholder: Azazel grins, teeth glinting in the shadows. "Who are you to judge my actions, O hooded one? Your scythe is not my concern." "London still mourns the children you slew," Dahlia replies. "I banished you once before For your wicked crimes. Must history repeat?" Azazel grins, teeth glinting in the shadows. "Who are you to judge my actions, O hooded one? Your scythe is not my concern." "London still mourns the children you slew," Dahlia replies. "I banished you once before For your wicked crimes. Must history repeat?"

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Azazel grins, teeth glinting in the shadows. "Who are you to judge my actions, O hooded one? Your scythe is not my concern." "London still mourns the children you slew," Dahlia replies. "I banished you once before For your wicked crimes. Must history repeat?"

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At this Azazel lets out a maniacal laugh, Full of malice, empty of remorse or care. "You know nothing of my grand design!" "Enlighten me then," Dahlia counters, Gripping her scythe, ready to mete out justice. Azazel only snarls, ancient evil in his eyes.
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Azazel's true face leers from the dark. No longer cloaked in shadow, but exposed— A being woven of pure malice and spite, With serpents coiled where hair should frame his face. Eyes black as endless voids reflect no soul, Only an endless hunger to defile, destroy. His claws are jagged shards of obsidian. The very air contorts around his form, Reality rejecting such wickedness—
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