Legacy Name: Obsession

The Custom Bloodred Serpenth
Owner: Idiot

Age: 17 years, 3 months, 1 week

Born: October 8th, 2004

Adopted: 3 years, 5 months, 4 weeks ago

Adopted: July 22nd, 2018


  • Level: 7
  • Strength: 15
  • Defense: 15
  • Speed: 14
  • Health: 19
  • HP: 19/19
  • Intelligence: 107
  • Books Read: 108
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Graveyard Shift Errand Runner


profile template (c) helix (get it)
story and overlay by me, Idiot

Note: This story contains vague depictions of drug usage and suicide, if this will upset you please click away from this pet before reading further.

There are things in the world that we don’t understand, and there will always be people we don’t understand. Humanity has infected us all, disgraced angels falling and plunging from the heavens above, to be met with the vulnerability and all encompassing being that is living in this realm of love and loss. How can we expect a inhuman being to understand us? To become like us?

This is not a happy story.

This is not a story of an angel that fell in love, and lived happily ever after.

This is a story of a demon, possessed by the emotion of humanity, and who could not handle it. It is the story of a man, driven to despair by feelings he doesn't understand, and power he cannot control.

Hadrian, by all accounts, indulges and wallows in being an infernal, dragging humans and angels along into the depths of hell, relishing in corrupting holy men and women, devouring the souls of those who dare come too close. To mortals, he is pure temptation, an invitation to sin, a call to leave behind the shackles of reason. He knows this, sweet words whispered in the dark, like chocolate pressed to skin, like wine savoured slowly, and gently. He knows he is all this, and more, but the infernal cannot help his nature, cannot help how the flowers sprout from his body, pricking through skin as dark as night, constellations of blood and stars carelessly strewn over him, like a poor imitation of the skies above. He may not be holy, but to all those who encounter him, he might as well be.

He leaves trails of desire and death as he walks the earth, poppies trailing in his wake, splashes of red against a dull earth. His eyes, starlight contained, shine in the darkness as he searches for his final resting place, the place where he shall lay down his roots, to sink into the earth and disappear into dust.

I cannot sleep, yet I long to dream.

He inhales the sickly sweet smoke with long, languid breath. The air is hot and humid, but there is no sound. He is surrounded by hundreds of people, all seeking their own dream, seeking their escape from a reality that does not want them. The ceiling seems to sink lower with each passing second, folding and bowing to the infernal seeking slumber within its depths. Time has no meaning, and reality has no grip, not when he makes this den his home.

Come, bring me your hopeless, bring me your depraved, bring me those who long for more.

He sought those who would fall to his temptations easily enough, who would drink in the sound of his voice and the taste of his scent, and would fall into a deep, deep sleep. Did they dream? Did they see their loved ones, miraculously alive, unharmed, smiles wide? Did they see themselves with the prettiest woman in all of Canton on their arm? Or were they like him, dreaming of a life ended, of bones snapped, and pieces torn.

Be careful, beloved one. Be careful to not fall into the same hole that swallowed all those that came before you.

He watched the dreamers, dark and bright all at once, a phantasmagoric splendor of reality and fantasy. Softly and gently, he trailed his hands across the still bodies, jealousy etched into his being, like a knife taken to butter. It reaches into him, with long and thin arms, reaching in and grasping at a heart he long thought dead. He, who had never dreamed, would never know peace until he knew what laid beyond the great black void. He wanted to know, he so desperately, despairingly needed to know what came next.

To infernals, death was but a whisper of a tale, of a possibility that laid unacknowledged. To him, poppies and starlight, molten gold and the first embers of the year, to him it was everything. You see, there was a reason that there were not many of his kind left. The sight of a knife, of a loaded gun, of danger with its teeth bared - it drove them to the edge, to a place where none return from.

Mania, infatuation, obsession.

I need to know what lies in that deep and sleeping darkness.

The cocking of a gun. The trigger and release. Finally, sleep.

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