Post by Deleted on Nov 21, 2013 0:19:13 GMT -5
belial
Name: Belial Alias: Bel Age: He'd be lying if he said he knew Occupation: Prince of Hell/Hell's records keeper Member Group: Demon Playby: Robert "Cutie" Sheehan |
I wasn't destined for hell. No, not really. I know it's true. I was a 'good guy', if such a thing really exists. Truthfully I don't believe it does. Good and bad are... they're concepts and labels created by humanity. Of course God had a sense of them too, when he created things. But lines have long since been blurred and good and bad are just words that mortals whisper amongst themselves to explain the actions of others when they have no other means to do so. i leave myself out of those affairs, mostly. I've never really had a place in them. I didn't as a human, and I don't now.
I don't remember too much of my life as a human, to be honest. Before hell is mostly a blur. I know it was long, incredibly so. Of course I was young when I died, but by my own standards it was an eternity. They say some people live more in eighteen years than others do in ninety. I find that to be true. Life was difficult, we were poor and not very well respected at that. I took my own life and was thrown here, falling harder and faster than I ever could have imagined being possible. Lucifer was there to catch me when the reaper came to take me away.
My relationship with Lucifer is familial at it's very core. We're close, incredibly so and always in contact. He looks out after me and my brothers. He shows a deeper caring for us than he's shown for any of the other demons he's created, he holds us close to his own heart and his grace touches us as if we were truly his children. It's made the centuries pass much more easily, has given us all a rock to cling to when we need it. Unlike most other demons we've got a sense of emotion outside of hatred and lust. We are capable of virtue as much as we are sin, and that's something I'm grateful for. It's helped me cling to my humanity just a bit, just enough to keep me running efficiently and effectively, just enough to keep me comfortable.
Outside of Lucifer, the only other I care for so deeply is Baal. He is by all accounts a brother to me, despite the lack of shared blood. We work together effortlessly and get along just as well. In an odd sort of way, he's nearly an extension of me, like a puzzle piece that fits in just right without being forced. Is that a good enough analogy? Truthfully, probably not. He's much more than a simple puzzle piece. So much more.
We can discuss him more later, if you're still interested, but for now we'll get back to me and what I do here. Essentially, I am a bookkeeper. I've always been organized, so it only made sense. Baal gives me the records of new souls entering hell, where they're going, and why, and I keep them organized. It seems like something's always getting lost and when it does, it's my job to find it. Or, at the very least, to point others in the right direction. It's a full time job, but I don't mind it. It keeps my mind occupied.
On the off chance I'm not working, I tend to have my nose buried in a book. I have a thirst for knowledge. I <i>need</i> to know everything I can, and I seek it out ruthlessly. Maybe that was my own downfall as a human. A thirst for knowledge, seeking and finding things I never needed to know. It would make sense, wouldn't it? Knowledge is a valuable power and a worthy adversary, and there is much that should not be known about the world, but still I keep searching. And truthfully? I don't know that I will ever stop.
In his human days, Belial had never been noble. So many of the others seemed to have come from powerful blood, but he had been an urchin on the street, the son of a criminal and a whore. He was the parasite on the flea that was swallowed by the dog and nothing more. He lived a beggar’s life; Belial recalled a dozen faces that spit at just the sight of him – but not much more than just the face. Names, ages, classes? That was as lost as the remains of the ancient city that he had once called home. Belial remembered the aching sunburns that tore at his skin, how his already dry, chapped flesh would peel and flake until he was left bloody and raw. Belial remembered little things – the first text he stole, the way he was lashed and beaten when the law caught up to him. He remembered crawling away, the scroll of ancient parchment clutched and crinkling against his chest as he went to hide in the shadows of the forgotten outskirts of the town.
He remembered staring at the symbols on the page, trying to make sense of them as heat, starvation, and exhaustion made the pain of the beating he’d endured worsen to near unbearable degrees. He remembered his father tearing the stolen word to shreds. He’d long since forgotten the voice, or names that were shouted in scalding tones as he was berated for his imbecilic decisions. He was told over and over how he was too stupid, too worthless, too common to be worthy of the education of the upper aristocratic members of the nameless civilization. He can still remembered the filthy man who called himself a father as he beat him harder than the law had just hours prior.
The details were fuzzy, and they seemed more to be the images built of a story that Belial had heard a thousand times than factual events that built his past. The only clear memory was the day he met the reaper at Death’s door, when he’d driven the blade of a crudely made shiv into the softness of his belly and had drug it upward. The taste of his own blood and bile on his tongue still stained both his mind and his tongue. The regret he had felt as he lost blood and struggled for breath had been matched only by the relief he felt when, finally, the pain stopped and he knew he had transcended above the mortal coil that had forced him to destroy himself.
Even when Belial had fallen to Hell, that relief had not left him. He had stood, somehow quaking despite being utterly bodiless. He remembered when Lucifer had come to hold him, gingerly and gently. He recalled, clearly, staring up at the Devil with a look of bewilderment and terror on his face as he anticipated unimaginable torture. Instead, the Morningstar had wrapped his wings around him, the healthy feathers and the tattered ones entwining in an embrace that radiated love and nothing more. From that moment on, Belial had never known fear for himself. His human memories fell away as his soul morphed from something human to his smoky white, serpentine form. He had been told he would develop scales, and that he would grow more and more beautiful as time had gone on. The scales had never come, but any tint of grey had long since vanished from the plume of smoke that made up the demon Belial. Now he shone, as brilliantly white as any angel’s wings. The others viewed this as weakness, and treated him as a child. Perhaps, in a sense -- though he was the eldest of many – he was. Belial knew only survival. Outside of his must-dos, he had been good. He had been gentle. He had never taken anything that another person dearly needed, and he had never spilled the blood of someone innocent. Belial was not in Hell because he deserved it. He was in Hell because he had put himself there.
Despite his weaknesses, there were also strengths. Belial’s mental power was stronger than any of his siblings, save perhaps the older three. Telekinesis came naturally, dream walking was a cake walk, pun not intended. Best and worst of all, perhaps, was empathy. Some would argue that this was a character trait and not a power, but it was what had gotten Belial through so much. He was hyperaware of other’s feelings, could tell the happy from the sad, the stressed from the excited. It was because of this that he tried so desperately to be there for his siblings, if only as a comedy act to lighten the load from time to time. It was not something he spoke of often, if ever, for he was happy to let his siblings see him as less than he was. Their protection was not offensive, they did only what any sibling would if they felt one of their brood may be threatened.
I don't remember too much of my life as a human, to be honest. Before hell is mostly a blur. I know it was long, incredibly so. Of course I was young when I died, but by my own standards it was an eternity. They say some people live more in eighteen years than others do in ninety. I find that to be true. Life was difficult, we were poor and not very well respected at that. I took my own life and was thrown here, falling harder and faster than I ever could have imagined being possible. Lucifer was there to catch me when the reaper came to take me away.
My relationship with Lucifer is familial at it's very core. We're close, incredibly so and always in contact. He looks out after me and my brothers. He shows a deeper caring for us than he's shown for any of the other demons he's created, he holds us close to his own heart and his grace touches us as if we were truly his children. It's made the centuries pass much more easily, has given us all a rock to cling to when we need it. Unlike most other demons we've got a sense of emotion outside of hatred and lust. We are capable of virtue as much as we are sin, and that's something I'm grateful for. It's helped me cling to my humanity just a bit, just enough to keep me running efficiently and effectively, just enough to keep me comfortable.
Outside of Lucifer, the only other I care for so deeply is Baal. He is by all accounts a brother to me, despite the lack of shared blood. We work together effortlessly and get along just as well. In an odd sort of way, he's nearly an extension of me, like a puzzle piece that fits in just right without being forced. Is that a good enough analogy? Truthfully, probably not. He's much more than a simple puzzle piece. So much more.
We can discuss him more later, if you're still interested, but for now we'll get back to me and what I do here. Essentially, I am a bookkeeper. I've always been organized, so it only made sense. Baal gives me the records of new souls entering hell, where they're going, and why, and I keep them organized. It seems like something's always getting lost and when it does, it's my job to find it. Or, at the very least, to point others in the right direction. It's a full time job, but I don't mind it. It keeps my mind occupied.
On the off chance I'm not working, I tend to have my nose buried in a book. I have a thirst for knowledge. I <i>need</i> to know everything I can, and I seek it out ruthlessly. Maybe that was my own downfall as a human. A thirst for knowledge, seeking and finding things I never needed to know. It would make sense, wouldn't it? Knowledge is a valuable power and a worthy adversary, and there is much that should not be known about the world, but still I keep searching. And truthfully? I don't know that I will ever stop.
---- A DEEPER LOOK AT BEL'S LIFE ----
In his human days, Belial had never been noble. So many of the others seemed to have come from powerful blood, but he had been an urchin on the street, the son of a criminal and a whore. He was the parasite on the flea that was swallowed by the dog and nothing more. He lived a beggar’s life; Belial recalled a dozen faces that spit at just the sight of him – but not much more than just the face. Names, ages, classes? That was as lost as the remains of the ancient city that he had once called home. Belial remembered the aching sunburns that tore at his skin, how his already dry, chapped flesh would peel and flake until he was left bloody and raw. Belial remembered little things – the first text he stole, the way he was lashed and beaten when the law caught up to him. He remembered crawling away, the scroll of ancient parchment clutched and crinkling against his chest as he went to hide in the shadows of the forgotten outskirts of the town.
He remembered staring at the symbols on the page, trying to make sense of them as heat, starvation, and exhaustion made the pain of the beating he’d endured worsen to near unbearable degrees. He remembered his father tearing the stolen word to shreds. He’d long since forgotten the voice, or names that were shouted in scalding tones as he was berated for his imbecilic decisions. He was told over and over how he was too stupid, too worthless, too common to be worthy of the education of the upper aristocratic members of the nameless civilization. He can still remembered the filthy man who called himself a father as he beat him harder than the law had just hours prior.
The details were fuzzy, and they seemed more to be the images built of a story that Belial had heard a thousand times than factual events that built his past. The only clear memory was the day he met the reaper at Death’s door, when he’d driven the blade of a crudely made shiv into the softness of his belly and had drug it upward. The taste of his own blood and bile on his tongue still stained both his mind and his tongue. The regret he had felt as he lost blood and struggled for breath had been matched only by the relief he felt when, finally, the pain stopped and he knew he had transcended above the mortal coil that had forced him to destroy himself.
Even when Belial had fallen to Hell, that relief had not left him. He had stood, somehow quaking despite being utterly bodiless. He remembered when Lucifer had come to hold him, gingerly and gently. He recalled, clearly, staring up at the Devil with a look of bewilderment and terror on his face as he anticipated unimaginable torture. Instead, the Morningstar had wrapped his wings around him, the healthy feathers and the tattered ones entwining in an embrace that radiated love and nothing more. From that moment on, Belial had never known fear for himself. His human memories fell away as his soul morphed from something human to his smoky white, serpentine form. He had been told he would develop scales, and that he would grow more and more beautiful as time had gone on. The scales had never come, but any tint of grey had long since vanished from the plume of smoke that made up the demon Belial. Now he shone, as brilliantly white as any angel’s wings. The others viewed this as weakness, and treated him as a child. Perhaps, in a sense -- though he was the eldest of many – he was. Belial knew only survival. Outside of his must-dos, he had been good. He had been gentle. He had never taken anything that another person dearly needed, and he had never spilled the blood of someone innocent. Belial was not in Hell because he deserved it. He was in Hell because he had put himself there.
Despite his weaknesses, there were also strengths. Belial’s mental power was stronger than any of his siblings, save perhaps the older three. Telekinesis came naturally, dream walking was a cake walk, pun not intended. Best and worst of all, perhaps, was empathy. Some would argue that this was a character trait and not a power, but it was what had gotten Belial through so much. He was hyperaware of other’s feelings, could tell the happy from the sad, the stressed from the excited. It was because of this that he tried so desperately to be there for his siblings, if only as a comedy act to lighten the load from time to time. It was not something he spoke of often, if ever, for he was happy to let his siblings see him as less than he was. Their protection was not offensive, they did only what any sibling would if they felt one of their brood may be threatened.