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daemoniumexmachina
ASTER
PRINCE OF THE DARK FEAST
Aster is the youngest son of King Eligos, and probably the most ambitious of the group. He appears as an otherwise normal man in a fine suit with the head of a stag, towering antlers above his head. His crisp manner of dress, silver tongue, and sharp eyes are all carefully curated tools with which he manages his domain--- that of the Dark Feast. A somewhat broad concept, his dominion centers around exploitation and taking, using, and consuming that which is not rightfully his.Specific examples of what empowers the Prince of the Dark Feast include manipulation, extortion, abuse of power, forcible subjugation, and even cannibalism. Any acts which take control of another person for one's own gain fall under this umbrella. Greed, indulgence, and overconsumption also fall into his jurisdiction. Aster tends to bargain with mortals that he can easily undercut with his manipulation, but he may also choose to empower those who are like him as well. He is represented by feasts, cutlery, money, ostentatious displays of wealth and power, and most prominently, meat. Hypnotism is a clear sign of his influence. His symbol is a pair of sharp buck antlers and his power is at its most potent during the transition from Winter to Spring.
✦
RETURN ✦
Summon Aster
Date: 2023-11-19 12:58 am (UTC)january.
Date: 2025-01-28 05:54 am (UTC)"You ask for far too much and offer too little. Other devils have tried to court me, and they have failed in their attempts as much as you have. There is nothing you can offer me that I would accept - nothing save your corpse on a pyre. Not a drop of your blood, not a bite of your flesh, not a chip off your horns will be put to any type of use. You shall die as an utter waste, and should you manage your ill-advised coup, your reign shall be measured in days if not hours."
It would do to cut it off there. But Fever cannot resist the chance to spit in his face.
"The only thing of actual worth you have ever done in your entire existence was siring Dahlia. And the bonds of blood and fate are not so immutable that they cannot be changed, this I know as fact. Her freedom is a matter of when, not if. So do yourself a favor and release her, for if you do that, we all might be inclined to let you choose how you'll die."
The line goes dead, and the card with his number will be tossed into the fireplace, to burn and disappear as if it never existed in the first place.
Headhunting.
Date: 2026-02-04 04:01 am (UTC)An invitation on a desk. Fairly innocuous in its placement, it'd blend in with any other mail if it didn't look so distinctive. A black envelope, crisp and high-quality. Gold lettering. A blue wax seal with a buck's skull embossing. Inside, a letter, written in sapphire ink.
Saint Ianthe Tridentarius of the Third House,
You are cordially invited to the domain of Prince Aster of the Dark Feast, Heir Apparent to the Regnum Infernalis. You are being offered an opportunity to acquire the power, status, enlightenment, and appreciation denied to you by your current station. Terms are to be discussed over dinner, provided by the Court.
Travel and accommodations are at your leisure and at His Highness' expense. Simply slide this letter under a door of your choosing, then open it.
We look forward to meeting with you.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-04 05:44 am (UTC)The room; a baroque orgy. The desk; of fine pearlescent plex. The letter... highly unusual. In parallel to its queerness is the hand that hunts the letter— the arm in which the hand is socketed; lackadaisical and, of particular note, stripped entirely of its flesh and muscle. The arm's master holds the envelope in a gilded, skeletal thumb and forefinger, pleased by its sameness to the lustrous text. A dozen nude paintings, brazen in their thirst and curiosity, ogle her.
"Spam mail to the Mithraeum." That garish distal phalange splices the envelope seam in a noise like frrrrrp. "How novel. Oh, Kiriona's going to love—"
Her tongue stills. She reads the letter once. Her perplexed expression resolves into a skimmed milk guilefulness. It's about goddamn time someone takes a little initiative. That 'someone' being— of course— The Saint of Awe, Princess of Ida, face and name destined to garnish every available street-facing surface, Ianthe Tridentarius.
She has always prided herself on seeing the big picture. Considering the room— the Mithraeum at large, chugging listlessly through space— the Eighth Saint to serve the King Undying decides she's seen quite enough of this one. Her summoner is right. She isn't appreciated here. She's a lovely, vicious flower wilting under inadequate care.
Ianthe crosses the room, iridescent Canaanite robes licking her heels, to slide the letter underneath her bedroom door. She opens it to an unfamiliar abyss. She takes a half-step through— stops— lolls her head over one shoulder and says, "So sorry, Johnny. Good luck filling the post. I quit."
The door slams shut behind her.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-04 05:49 pm (UTC)Beyond the door, a lavish dining room, seemingly without any other entrances. Peculiar indeed. Whatever Ianthe has seen from necromancy seems less like a sister and more like a distant 3rd cousin to whatever magics allow such a place to exist, dreamlike and liminal and utterly unto its own self. A pocket dimension, adrift outside the universe.
A vintage-looking round table in the darkest dark wood is placed in the center of the room, chairs at opposite ends of its diameter. A shimmering crystal chandelier hangs overhead with gold fixtures, and the round room is lined with thick blue swag curtains of crushed velvet and silk, tied with gold decorative ropes adorned with tassels. On the black marble floor, a round blue rug, ornate and hypnotic in its patterning. On the table, blue place settings and gold cutlery. Blue on blue on blue with accents of black and gold. Like the letter.
A woman stands expectantly with her hands folded. A maidservant of some kind. Adorned from head to toe in black, including a veiled hat, only a small section of her skin is visible. The bottom of her nose, her angular jawline and lush red lips, a long neck, and cleavage nearly spilling out of the low neckline of her gown. The rest is covered by the dress, the veil, and a pair of opera gloves. She pulls out Ianthe's chair and gestures to it primly. "Prince Aster will be with you momentarily, Your Holiness. May I get you anything to drink?"
no subject
Date: 2026-02-04 06:41 pm (UTC)The room unfolds for her, the rich black-blueness of battered skin two days old— chased through with filigrees of gold, like veins purged of blood in favor of the aureate, liquid divine. The room is delicious. She could have eaten it as a five star meal, dabbing her mouth with a hankie after engorging herself on velvet blue spoils. Blue upon blue upon blue— "Do you think he likes it?" Ianthe, languorously-tongued, by way of answering the question. "Blue. I honestly can't tell."
She skates her eyes from the peak of the woman's hat to the remarkable pair of tits she's got in an equally remarkable dress. No 'eyes up here', since she's veiled them. Reaching out her lyctoral senses, she hits a wall of thanergy and thalergy too coalesced to discern. Interesting. A chair is pulled cleanly and noiselessly out for her. Ianthe takes her seat, body tipped diagonally.
"A tall glass of boiling fat, please." She waves her skeletal hand, bunches of tendon and muscle contracting hideously at her shoulder. "Kidding. A jape. How about the oldest jug in the cellar? A glass of that, please, if it wouldn't kill you to go searching. Something to make me pucker."
no subject
Date: 2026-02-04 07:14 pm (UTC)"I was going to say," Daphne replies with a breath of a laugh, "if you'd truly wanted that, I'd be asking what species. We have anything. Our oldest wine, then? I think we have a 13:29 Cabernet."
no subject
Date: 2026-02-04 07:45 pm (UTC)"No shit." The Saint of Awe awes, tipping her hawkish face upward. Her veins are a sea foam green racing down her neck and clavicle. "Really? Anything? Oh, this does require some thought— yes, Cabernet, and..." She taps her own nose, indecisive. "Mmmmm... visceral fat... from the liver... male... maybe forty-five to fifty years old? Human, of course. None of that animal crap."
no subject
Date: 2026-02-04 08:11 pm (UTC)"Very good, my liege. Right away," Daphne agrees, bowing slightly before she exits through the same door that Ianthe entered through. It seems to now lead somewhere entirely different, judging by the lighting and shapes beyond it. It is the only door.
The voice that follows seems to slither into Ianthe's mind, as if spoken telepathically, and fill the space as if announced in a booming voice. "You'll fit right in here, with that sort of taste," it teases.
At some point, someone else just appeared in the seat across from Ianthe. A sharply dressed man in a black suit, accessorized crisply with a deep blue ascot and gold pin. His hands are gloved in fine, shining black leather that looks practically new. Everything about him screams money, from the sharp tailoring of his clothing to the cane he toys with in his hand, a black ebony shaft with a golden ornament on top that looks like the head of a wolf, run through with a pike. Atop his own shoulders, the head of not a man, but a melanistic buck with 12-point obsidian antlers, strung with gold chains and blue beads. His eyes are the only thing not completely color matched, being a stark and vacant glowing neon white.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Saint Ianthe. We have a lot to discuss."
no subject
Date: 2026-02-04 09:00 pm (UTC)Shit. Should have asked for a cigarette—
The thought is lopped off at the joint as a voice compresses her ears; baritone, wine-rich, everywhere. Ianthe very legitimately blinks and misses it. At one moment, heading the table alone— in the next, beholding the great black stag. She visibly marvels at him, breaking her lazy posture to lean forward. He is all the money in the known universe compressed into the shape of a man and capped by the head of an animal. He is what a god should look like. Abnormal. Imposing. Not like that John Gaius, in his shabby long-sleeves and holy drawers. A god fit for a bachelor pad.
"I thought deer were herbivores." Those white eyes pierce her. Ianthe steeples her fingers and leans her elbows onto the table, riveted. "Likewise, your Highness. Shall you start, or shall I?"
no subject
Date: 2026-02-05 02:29 am (UTC)"Normally, yes." Though Aster's mouth does not move to speak, it does open so that he can run his black tongue over a set of wolf's fangs, wholly unlike the teeth of any true deer.
"I'll go first, though. I'd love to tell you a little bit about the offer." Aster reclines in his chair as Daphne returns with a tray, depositing drinks onto the table. For Ianthe, a wine glass full of Cabernet that reeks of 200 year old wood and dry sour cherries, and a double-shot glass containing a rich brown liquid that is semi-opaque and hot. For Aster, an Old Fashioned with a large square ice cube embossed with a buck skull, same as his wax seal. "Thanks, sweetheart," Aster remarks as he barely bothers to regard her.
"Anyway, I'll cut to the chase. I'm from a different universe than your own. Different gods, different rules, different magic. I'm heir to the infernal throne, as soon as my old man dies. Which is due to come up sometime soon. And I'm capable of naming humans members of my court, and granting them power. Not only that, but my domain is a unique one. One that comes with a substantial amount of luxury, which will only increase when I become king in a few months. What I need is someone who I can count on to assist me in making sure that happens. With me so far?"
no subject
Date: 2026-02-06 04:58 am (UTC)Ianthe arches her milk brow. "My, what big teeth you have. All the better to maim the sad sacks of the universe and lick up the juice, no?"
Speaking of juice— glasses are placed, ill-sorted aromas wafting in a helix of piquant fermentation and oafish fat. A half centimeter of spume swims at the top of the smaller glass. She helps herself to some light cannibalization to start, savoring the fat like a shot of espresso, swishing like an oil pull. Taking Aster's cue, Ianthe doesn't so much as look at the poor sweetheart— whatever her name is.
Due, he says. She wonders what he means by that. Probably a big platter of patricide. She doesn't suppose an elder god can very well be stuffed in a geriatric lounge. His use of 'when' tells the Saint all she needs to know. Premeditated murder is definitely happening here. Definitely.
"Yes, don't stop now."
no subject
Date: 2026-02-07 04:47 pm (UTC)"Excellent. Now, don't let the title throw you off, but the thing I am looking for is called an 'infernal servant.' Essentially, it is a human that has made an agreement with a demon. You do things that feed and empower my domain, and I reward you with whatever it is within my power to give. So, let's talk specifically about those two points."
As he's speaking, another apparent member of his staff appears---- a hulking wolf man, who seems to breathe more from the bloodless but jagged lacerations in his throat than from his nose or mouth. With large, clawed hands, he sets down plates. Lobster risotto, garlic butter asparagus, and rare filet mignon, topped with a rich red wine sauce and slivered pieces of some other kind of meat. Heart, judging by the texture.
"Ah, Nightingale. My chef. He's excellent, you'll love it," Aster assures her before continuing. "Now. My domain is that of the Dark Feast, and to empower it is to embody it. To take that which is not your own by rights and use it to enrich yourself. Greed, manipulation, dominance, consumption, predation. Maybe a bit of cannibalism, if we're feeling spicy. And what I can reasonably offer--- is luxury of the finest order. Power. Access to the kinds of magic that would make your head spin. Flesh magic, obviously, it fits right in, but also more. Physical strength, body modification, monstrous additions if you want them. Money. Fame within my realm, and the realm of men. Fear at your name. And your name only. Not one half of your family's little parlor trick. You. Thoughts?"
no subject
Date: 2026-02-08 09:09 pm (UTC)She wonders idly, pointlessly, if the big dumb doggy drips blood into the cooking. If it's difficult to arrange garnish with fingers like taloned sausages, or if he's simply so committed to his culinary passions as to not be stopped by his hideous, carpeted meat-fists. You go, doggy. She thinks that— and thinks heinously of the jagged slit in his throat, curious how far she could plunge her fingers in before hitting the larynx. She doesn't, of course— picks up fork and knife and tests the temperature of her filet instead. Blue.
Beef and slivered heart melts in her mouth, a perfect union of blood, squelch and a buttery absence of collagen. Ianthe's mouth pools with saliva, each bite somehow more rich than the last.
After a slow chew-and-swallow, she says, "What's the catch? You can't offer a girl her wettest dream and not expect to be probed about the catch— and I don't like being caught on the hop. It gives me hives. So, what is it?"
no subject
Date: 2026-02-21 10:33 pm (UTC)"Well, I suppose if we're really reaching, I could say that it's dangerous," Aster offers. "You'll be immortal in the sense that you don't age, but scarcely unkillable, and my ascension isn't without naysayers. My daughter, for one. Traitorous brat that she is. And all her annoying little friends. Someone you know, in fact, is tangentially involved. One Harrowhark Nonagesimus. If she's particularly inconveniently located, you may have to kill her. And of course you'll be expected to wear Court colors. Blue, black, gold. You already have the last one covered." Aster gestures to her arm with his glass. "So, not imperfect. But I wouldn't have called you here if I thought you were likely to get killed in the line of duty. That'd be a waste of steak."
no subject
Date: 2026-03-02 05:44 pm (UTC)"Danger's hardly a proviso. What's the point in doing anything if it doesn't make you sweat a little?" Speaking of sweat— Harrowhark Nonagesimus triggers her hypothalamus into producing a whole hell of a lot of it. Ianthe isn't a creature who sweats out her fear. Scarcely does fear grip her. No, she dampens now in feverish anticipation— "I see,"— then dries herself in an act like evaporation. So, Harry. That's where you've gone. How romantic that our paths should cross.
"A waste, yes. You needn't worry. I've ascended once, to Lyctorhood, and that was no easy feat. Imagine me, a woman in her prime, face covered in the spoils of her cavalier, while the rest of the idiot squad gawps because they couldn't figure it out. Imagine me afterward, a newborn Lyctor, fist and gesture to God himself—" and she laughs here, "—who turned out to be the most pathetic man I've ever met. Soggier than a used tissue. You should have seen him, when Harry— Harrowhark— disappeared. Like his precious baby was stolen from the crib. He's been moping around and sulking ever since. I couldn't stand it anymore. You caught me at the perfect time."
Chew, chew. Swallow.
"Blue's a good color."
no subject
Date: 2026-03-15 03:36 pm (UTC)"Magnificent," Aster practically purrs, fascinated by her reaction. She's turning out to be even more up his street at every angle. Does the opportunity murder an old friend really inspire such lust in her? He offers his hand for a shake. "Then you have the job, my dear. We'll make incredible partners."
no subject
Date: 2026-03-17 08:22 pm (UTC)Ianthe clasps his hand in her gilded one— and is rived apart by hunger. Not her own, but his. It begins in her belly, an arctic glow in the interstices of her squelching stomach, liver and colon. It chases counter-directionally— hunger like lightning, like the keenest rapier's beat— through her sagittal plane. This hunger has fingers, and those fingers curl around this famished rupture to pull her further apart. She's alarmed. Ianthe Tridentarius is alarmed, and for a split second that alarm flashes greenly across her face.
She knows better than to touch her stomach. To let this alarm be anything more than a wink. She plays the game. She wears the correct face. She's done this all her life, and scared prey, she knows, is the first to die. And she's intact. Her organs are unperforated. Oh, but that hunger—
She'll be gnawing on it for weeks.
"That we will." Ianthe shakes Aster's hand and retracts it. "What is the job, exactly? Culling the family, gorging ourselves at supper, wooing old friends— all things I'm chomping at the bit to get started on, mind— aaand..."