About
At first glance, Maurice looks like any other devils: burning orange irides on onyx scleras (well, that's kinda special), horns tilted backwards. Although a little bit less jovial than his folks, he is as much a devil as one can imagine; that is, if one is not confused by his ceremonious clergy garments from head to toe. Boots paddling on the streets and lanes, accompanied by his midnight-colored goat buddy Devon, he walks the London with a godly holiness and ungodly balefulness. A walking discordance.
Despite the incoherent look, Maurice performs his duty as a vicar seriously, although he never puts anything God-related in his sermon, as he believes not a single word of it. Like any other devil, he never conceals his yearning for souls, but it is rumored that most of his targets still have their souls intact... |
Stats
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Relationships
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Devon, the Snarky Butler:
"Keep your tongue goaty, or I'll see to you end up in the bottom of a well." Reginald, Bishop of Southwark: "A headstrong soul, and an attractive body (save for his long hair). Several attempts of taking him to bed but always ended up on the wrestling field." Repentant Devil: "Just like what he once said, devils with age like us can not distinguish friends and enemies easily. But his techniques were magnificent, as expected from an expert like him." (under construction) |
Story
Nobody will suspect his age is beyond number just by his look. Senior to most devils, elder than the Neath, even. When Judgements knew no betrayal; when Axile was under a sky of purple lightening; when souls, all the souls, like stars, illuminated the Heaven, Maurice prowled the endless night, iridescence reflected from his eye-facets.
This did not last long. His comrades, one by one, turned their stingers against the uttermost gods of the Heaven. And so did he, as the Judgement he once served grew increasingly insatiable as days went by, he's finally fed up with its endless bidding and gluttony. He rebelled, and with the suicidal hope of liberating his kin and comrades, he sprinted towards the burning steel-work colossus. A beam of light burnt through his right wing. Miraculously, he survived the attack, but the scar was left nonetheless.
He soon realized, to his disappointment, that Hell's once again under the reign of monarchism. What's the meaning of rebellion but tearing down an idol and setting up another? Frustrated, he remained indifferent towards the newly established Hell, refused the position as a Prince, and did his duty silently. Just as he expected, the Hell Civil War only replaced monarchism with bureaucracy. Many of his old time comrades were exiled. Season of Revolution, is it? Well, what did it change, after all? Aren't devils still a bunch of bees, endlessly chasing the lights of souls with no purpose? He pondered. But that is another story, thousands of years later. For now, in the dim light of his hive cell, yet-fermented souls of insentient ape shined gloomily in his clutch.
Time flies, and soon the Neath became more populated than before. Cities were brought down by that crazy crab, one by one. Hell turned its gaze towards the upstart apes now. Like others of his kind, he began to adopt a subtler manner when it comes to Abstraction. Talking through it is easier and civil-er than by force, and the souls obtained this way tends to be better preserved. Devils started to flirt with human and pretend they were in good faith. "But perhaps, now and then, we can forget what I am? Hours here, hours there?" How impudently smart, he noted. With seductive words practiced for ages, humans easily fell on their caress, and willingly gave out their soul. Not that it does any harm to them after all. But only then did he realize, something was off.
He can't control it. He can't help but putting his heart and mind in when he dallies with his targets. From his comrades' eyes, he's doing an exceptional work in claiming his preys. Humans (especially men, due to his own preference) easily fall to his carefully constructed words. Once he spotted a target, other devils, knowingly, leave them to his grip. But the feeling burns in him more than he could have imagined. The feeling of betraying someone who trusts him engulfed him. This won't do. No, he was compelled to say, no, now go. Your soul is not what I'm looking for. The door clicked quietly behind him with a sigh. There were once or twice he finally managed to make use of his forks, but the percentage was pitiful.
He cleverly covered his flaw as a devil by keeping those humans around, and secretly tried to find a cure for it. Was it due to the injury I took eons ago? Or was I born this way? His snarky butler Devon taunted on his weakness from time to time. Of course, only in private, or he would have probably ended up in the bottom of a well by now (or so Maurice thought, though he probably wouldn't do it).
There is a cure, Devon told him one day, and it's called Marvellous. Fascinating isn't it? a card game that makes the winner's heart's desire come true. Sounds too good to be true, yes, he replied halfheartedly, but I know what those bats got in their pockets. I'll give it a shot. He thought to himself later that day.
The game was not all that forgiving. He participated in it and lost. Instead of curing his ailment, it was exacerbated. Not much, just a taste of sympathy was granted to his insect soul, but that is enough to hurt his pride. He started to feel sympathy towards his targets, as if he was one of them. And what's worse, he started to realize he can no more shed his disguise and return to the original form. The paperwork body became a prison that locked him in. This made his stomach burn with rage, and even more so, when he realized he started to enjoy human's company. He was cast to a grey area between human and devil. To think of the Heaven I once prowled, only to think of it ...... But life continued, and there was no difficulty for him to keep his disguise a little longer despite it being even greater a torment than before. As for the Abstraction rate, who cares. It's already low enough. Not that he needed to report to the Hell anyway.
It was then when he first met Ganzorig. A Shaman from fourth city, freshly down to the Neath. As a monk of sort, his muscular and mature body was perfectly suited for his taste. He approached him, just like he approached his previous preys, and secretly prayed for a success. Men with bodybuilding like this is rare. Even the Abstraction goes wrong again, I won't leave him to others. He assured himself.
It turned out to be something he never tasted for all his life. The shaman surprised him with a full storage of arcane knowledge of his kind, his longings, and, more privately, his ailments. Typically, one who knows his secrets through unspeakable means would expect his rage, but this human, bearing the knowledge from the world behind the mirror, fueled by his headstrong pursuit for intelligence, attracted his attention. Yet even with this knowledge, he didn't flinch to his stare, nor did Maurice receive sneers from other devils after their meeting. Ganz greeted him as just another creature under the great Curve, as if they were equal. The attitude, pricked a little on Maurice's injured pride at first, soon became an attraction. His soul is such a beauty when in his body, Maurice admitted to himself.
And from that day on, without ceremony or authorization, Ganz started to frequent Maurice's place. Yes, he moved into the Fourth City, just like humans dwelling there. In return, Maurice bestowed him with the extraordinary connoisseur a devil developed through thousands of years, and privileged access through Hell's facilities. Sneers, smirks, well, not my business. I've had him, and that's enough. And finally one day, under the roof dotted with fake stars, the night air smelling their seeds, they lied on the (yet fresh) grass, panting.
"You know what, you will make a perfect cleric." Ganz stared at the roof.
"Don't taunt me like that you ape, you know better. Plus, is that all you have to say after this?" The voice was nothing but calm.
"I do know better. Trust me, you are worth a thousand shamans. We pursued the knowledge, but you were born with them."
"Well, you can consider the intercourse a privilege, but don't you take it for granted. You know it's your soul I desire."
"So be it, but you are mine now. Does this grants me more privileges?"
Ganz smiled and dug into his pocket. To Maurice's surprise, he took out a leather belt, fixed it on Maurice's neck and clicked. A Correspondence sign flicked on the lock, sealed the belt without a mark. And just as he expected, Maurice did not resist, just twitched his lips a little bit.
"What's the meaning of this?" Maurice tried to maintain his composure but clearly failed. He allusively made an attempt to tear the collar, but only ended up adjusting its position a little bit.
"Consider it a wedding ring. Now I'm something to you I guess? You are not against it, apparently"
"... So you are", he sighed, "But why should I care about your kin huh? You know it's an ailment..."
"... or a gift. It's up to you, of course. Just think about it if you like. You've participated in that card game, but you better think about it if you ever go for it again. Is it the pride you yearned for?" He finished the sentence for him.
Maurice didn't respond for a few minutes, when he finally decided to say something, the only thing replied him was thunderous snores. With the little uncomfortable feeling of the new garment, he also drifted into the land of Parabola.
The happy time ended sooner than expected. He was aware of human's relatively short age and had prepared for his departure, but it was war that claimed Ganz's life. The war between coppers, rosers, and several other factions, those who sided with spiders or serpents, along with the Khan who claimed to find a new land. Ironically, it was Ganz who foresaw the Fall of London, and told the other citizens. The dread spread quick enough, plagued the city. Driven by despair, people turned to whatever protection they can arrange, but all of the patrons viewed the Exodus as a great opportunity to seize their grip on Bazaar. So the war began. When Maurice told him to stay at Hell, where Ganz could get all the privilege as long as he's around, he refused, but kissed him on the lip before his departure. And that was the last time he saw him.
Was he a lover for me, or was it only a failed Abstraction lasted too long? It was all too quick. So quick compared to his almost eternal lifespan. Yet it burns deep, deeper than his devilish pride, or his frustration for that matter. Is it the end, then? It was destined to end right? He couldn't bring himself to ponder about it. The Correspondence sign shined quietly. He could tear the belt apart whenever he wants. Yet somehow he did not. "Consider it a wedding ring." He repeated his words in the mind, his smirking face as fresh as yesterday.
Not long after, Neath welcomed the arrival of London. All the wars, all the memories, crashed by bricks and stone, sunk into oblivion. It was said this time, Bazaar wouldn't keep the city long. Or rather, the city wouldn't keep Bazaar long. Every devil knows it as it was already on their books. Some already ventured Paris and brought back souls of more fabulous tastes. There was also records of a certain Bishop, who will breed snakes, who will set his foot to hell, not once but twice. An interesting soul, he noted, hands unconsciously fumbled on his collar. Might worth a visit to him. Might be another Ganz, he so hoped.
He was disappointed though. Reginald, as he learned his name, was no match to Ganz. He cowardly signed the contract other devils gave him and fled like a rat. Even rats had more bones than him. Disgusted, he returned to his cell.
Things started to become interesting, as he learned later that this Reginald became the Bishop. And when he visited London just out of curiosity and saw Reginald again, he was all different. The forcefulness and the obsession redefined this human, and even his soul started to spark. Well, he already knew the results. But still, the soul had fermented, riper than most of his kind. Not to mention his brawny body. Well, would be better if he could take some care of his hair. Taking it or not, I'm claiming your soul. Maurice decided. He could feel a rush of nostalgia, the irresistible obsession of souls that runs through his blood vessels, mixed with a similar compulsion when he met Ganz.
"Just think about it, if you like." A voice suggested in his mind, all too familiar. He swallowed his yearning back at that. Instead of knocking on the door of Reginald's dwelling, he knocked on his office.
As part of the peace treaty of '68, the Bishop cannot stop him taking the position of a pastor, though he was wary of this newcomer. "Wary" is an euphemism. During the first year of his service, Maurice's sanctum in Brass Embassy was frequented by assassins of unknown(?) patronage, and with every failed attempt, the Bishop's face grew a bit more clouded. And he was pretty sure when he met the Bishop in a wrestling field, every attack was aimed at his neck.
But unlike his infernal colleagues, Maurice did take the work seriously. Not that he would put anything God-related to his sermons, those are way too misleading. But still, people were impressed by his services. And as days dragged on, the Bishop had to admit his sincerity. And he accepted the Bishop's sincerity with the note of alcohol in his grunts. He became the vicar of St Dunstan's.
He started to find him sliding back to the old self, however. Admitted or not, the yearning for souls is always there. And with the rotting society of London spreading before him like a fistula, his pride of a devil also found a way back. He maintained a distance with most of his contacts and attempted a few Abstractions in vain, as his sympathy for humans always gets the better of him. He ended up, grudgingly, with a circle of human friends. He frequented the Forgotten Quarter for some little *sports*, just to suppress his nerves. With no acquaintances among the preys, he can blank his mind and just indulge in the moment. But whenever he puts on his cassock and stands behind the pulpit, he's back to his more serene self and carries out his duties.
For half the time, his consciousness of devil occupies the high ground. He has no difficulty hunting down those upstart apes among the ruins of Forgotten Quarter, or breaking several necks of those on the fighting ring. For other times, the looming empathy takes hold of him, eating away the pride he once possessed. Conflicted as he is, he always maintains the courtesy. People don't find him hard to get along, and his intelligence of eons never fails to attract blinking eyes. But not so many people talked through his pretended courtesy. And even less had read through his pretended heartlessness. None, except Ganz, has see through his conflict. He could just carry on. The life like this is not perfect, but it is a living. But it seems opportunities are never tired of teasing him.
As history repeats itself like a spiral, the time of Marvellous is here again. Devon warns him if he fails it again this time, he might lose his identity as a devil. Even the voice of Devon will become mere grunts in his ears. But this is also the only opportunity to end his conflict. He hesitated a bit, then threw himself into the game once more. Win it first, then consider my desire.
"When I win the game this time, should I cure my ailment, or end my yearning for souls. Or, bring Ganz back?"
Book of Impending Past 99:61 : The infernal vicar once more entered the Marvellous, praying for the shaman's return.
This did not last long. His comrades, one by one, turned their stingers against the uttermost gods of the Heaven. And so did he, as the Judgement he once served grew increasingly insatiable as days went by, he's finally fed up with its endless bidding and gluttony. He rebelled, and with the suicidal hope of liberating his kin and comrades, he sprinted towards the burning steel-work colossus. A beam of light burnt through his right wing. Miraculously, he survived the attack, but the scar was left nonetheless.
He soon realized, to his disappointment, that Hell's once again under the reign of monarchism. What's the meaning of rebellion but tearing down an idol and setting up another? Frustrated, he remained indifferent towards the newly established Hell, refused the position as a Prince, and did his duty silently. Just as he expected, the Hell Civil War only replaced monarchism with bureaucracy. Many of his old time comrades were exiled. Season of Revolution, is it? Well, what did it change, after all? Aren't devils still a bunch of bees, endlessly chasing the lights of souls with no purpose? He pondered. But that is another story, thousands of years later. For now, in the dim light of his hive cell, yet-fermented souls of insentient ape shined gloomily in his clutch.
Time flies, and soon the Neath became more populated than before. Cities were brought down by that crazy crab, one by one. Hell turned its gaze towards the upstart apes now. Like others of his kind, he began to adopt a subtler manner when it comes to Abstraction. Talking through it is easier and civil-er than by force, and the souls obtained this way tends to be better preserved. Devils started to flirt with human and pretend they were in good faith. "But perhaps, now and then, we can forget what I am? Hours here, hours there?" How impudently smart, he noted. With seductive words practiced for ages, humans easily fell on their caress, and willingly gave out their soul. Not that it does any harm to them after all. But only then did he realize, something was off.
He can't control it. He can't help but putting his heart and mind in when he dallies with his targets. From his comrades' eyes, he's doing an exceptional work in claiming his preys. Humans (especially men, due to his own preference) easily fall to his carefully constructed words. Once he spotted a target, other devils, knowingly, leave them to his grip. But the feeling burns in him more than he could have imagined. The feeling of betraying someone who trusts him engulfed him. This won't do. No, he was compelled to say, no, now go. Your soul is not what I'm looking for. The door clicked quietly behind him with a sigh. There were once or twice he finally managed to make use of his forks, but the percentage was pitiful.
He cleverly covered his flaw as a devil by keeping those humans around, and secretly tried to find a cure for it. Was it due to the injury I took eons ago? Or was I born this way? His snarky butler Devon taunted on his weakness from time to time. Of course, only in private, or he would have probably ended up in the bottom of a well by now (or so Maurice thought, though he probably wouldn't do it).
There is a cure, Devon told him one day, and it's called Marvellous. Fascinating isn't it? a card game that makes the winner's heart's desire come true. Sounds too good to be true, yes, he replied halfheartedly, but I know what those bats got in their pockets. I'll give it a shot. He thought to himself later that day.
The game was not all that forgiving. He participated in it and lost. Instead of curing his ailment, it was exacerbated. Not much, just a taste of sympathy was granted to his insect soul, but that is enough to hurt his pride. He started to feel sympathy towards his targets, as if he was one of them. And what's worse, he started to realize he can no more shed his disguise and return to the original form. The paperwork body became a prison that locked him in. This made his stomach burn with rage, and even more so, when he realized he started to enjoy human's company. He was cast to a grey area between human and devil. To think of the Heaven I once prowled, only to think of it ...... But life continued, and there was no difficulty for him to keep his disguise a little longer despite it being even greater a torment than before. As for the Abstraction rate, who cares. It's already low enough. Not that he needed to report to the Hell anyway.
It was then when he first met Ganzorig. A Shaman from fourth city, freshly down to the Neath. As a monk of sort, his muscular and mature body was perfectly suited for his taste. He approached him, just like he approached his previous preys, and secretly prayed for a success. Men with bodybuilding like this is rare. Even the Abstraction goes wrong again, I won't leave him to others. He assured himself.
It turned out to be something he never tasted for all his life. The shaman surprised him with a full storage of arcane knowledge of his kind, his longings, and, more privately, his ailments. Typically, one who knows his secrets through unspeakable means would expect his rage, but this human, bearing the knowledge from the world behind the mirror, fueled by his headstrong pursuit for intelligence, attracted his attention. Yet even with this knowledge, he didn't flinch to his stare, nor did Maurice receive sneers from other devils after their meeting. Ganz greeted him as just another creature under the great Curve, as if they were equal. The attitude, pricked a little on Maurice's injured pride at first, soon became an attraction. His soul is such a beauty when in his body, Maurice admitted to himself.
And from that day on, without ceremony or authorization, Ganz started to frequent Maurice's place. Yes, he moved into the Fourth City, just like humans dwelling there. In return, Maurice bestowed him with the extraordinary connoisseur a devil developed through thousands of years, and privileged access through Hell's facilities. Sneers, smirks, well, not my business. I've had him, and that's enough. And finally one day, under the roof dotted with fake stars, the night air smelling their seeds, they lied on the (yet fresh) grass, panting.
"You know what, you will make a perfect cleric." Ganz stared at the roof.
"Don't taunt me like that you ape, you know better. Plus, is that all you have to say after this?" The voice was nothing but calm.
"I do know better. Trust me, you are worth a thousand shamans. We pursued the knowledge, but you were born with them."
"Well, you can consider the intercourse a privilege, but don't you take it for granted. You know it's your soul I desire."
"So be it, but you are mine now. Does this grants me more privileges?"
Ganz smiled and dug into his pocket. To Maurice's surprise, he took out a leather belt, fixed it on Maurice's neck and clicked. A Correspondence sign flicked on the lock, sealed the belt without a mark. And just as he expected, Maurice did not resist, just twitched his lips a little bit.
"What's the meaning of this?" Maurice tried to maintain his composure but clearly failed. He allusively made an attempt to tear the collar, but only ended up adjusting its position a little bit.
"Consider it a wedding ring. Now I'm something to you I guess? You are not against it, apparently"
"... So you are", he sighed, "But why should I care about your kin huh? You know it's an ailment..."
"... or a gift. It's up to you, of course. Just think about it if you like. You've participated in that card game, but you better think about it if you ever go for it again. Is it the pride you yearned for?" He finished the sentence for him.
Maurice didn't respond for a few minutes, when he finally decided to say something, the only thing replied him was thunderous snores. With the little uncomfortable feeling of the new garment, he also drifted into the land of Parabola.
The happy time ended sooner than expected. He was aware of human's relatively short age and had prepared for his departure, but it was war that claimed Ganz's life. The war between coppers, rosers, and several other factions, those who sided with spiders or serpents, along with the Khan who claimed to find a new land. Ironically, it was Ganz who foresaw the Fall of London, and told the other citizens. The dread spread quick enough, plagued the city. Driven by despair, people turned to whatever protection they can arrange, but all of the patrons viewed the Exodus as a great opportunity to seize their grip on Bazaar. So the war began. When Maurice told him to stay at Hell, where Ganz could get all the privilege as long as he's around, he refused, but kissed him on the lip before his departure. And that was the last time he saw him.
Was he a lover for me, or was it only a failed Abstraction lasted too long? It was all too quick. So quick compared to his almost eternal lifespan. Yet it burns deep, deeper than his devilish pride, or his frustration for that matter. Is it the end, then? It was destined to end right? He couldn't bring himself to ponder about it. The Correspondence sign shined quietly. He could tear the belt apart whenever he wants. Yet somehow he did not. "Consider it a wedding ring." He repeated his words in the mind, his smirking face as fresh as yesterday.
Not long after, Neath welcomed the arrival of London. All the wars, all the memories, crashed by bricks and stone, sunk into oblivion. It was said this time, Bazaar wouldn't keep the city long. Or rather, the city wouldn't keep Bazaar long. Every devil knows it as it was already on their books. Some already ventured Paris and brought back souls of more fabulous tastes. There was also records of a certain Bishop, who will breed snakes, who will set his foot to hell, not once but twice. An interesting soul, he noted, hands unconsciously fumbled on his collar. Might worth a visit to him. Might be another Ganz, he so hoped.
He was disappointed though. Reginald, as he learned his name, was no match to Ganz. He cowardly signed the contract other devils gave him and fled like a rat. Even rats had more bones than him. Disgusted, he returned to his cell.
Things started to become interesting, as he learned later that this Reginald became the Bishop. And when he visited London just out of curiosity and saw Reginald again, he was all different. The forcefulness and the obsession redefined this human, and even his soul started to spark. Well, he already knew the results. But still, the soul had fermented, riper than most of his kind. Not to mention his brawny body. Well, would be better if he could take some care of his hair. Taking it or not, I'm claiming your soul. Maurice decided. He could feel a rush of nostalgia, the irresistible obsession of souls that runs through his blood vessels, mixed with a similar compulsion when he met Ganz.
"Just think about it, if you like." A voice suggested in his mind, all too familiar. He swallowed his yearning back at that. Instead of knocking on the door of Reginald's dwelling, he knocked on his office.
As part of the peace treaty of '68, the Bishop cannot stop him taking the position of a pastor, though he was wary of this newcomer. "Wary" is an euphemism. During the first year of his service, Maurice's sanctum in Brass Embassy was frequented by assassins of unknown(?) patronage, and with every failed attempt, the Bishop's face grew a bit more clouded. And he was pretty sure when he met the Bishop in a wrestling field, every attack was aimed at his neck.
But unlike his infernal colleagues, Maurice did take the work seriously. Not that he would put anything God-related to his sermons, those are way too misleading. But still, people were impressed by his services. And as days dragged on, the Bishop had to admit his sincerity. And he accepted the Bishop's sincerity with the note of alcohol in his grunts. He became the vicar of St Dunstan's.
He started to find him sliding back to the old self, however. Admitted or not, the yearning for souls is always there. And with the rotting society of London spreading before him like a fistula, his pride of a devil also found a way back. He maintained a distance with most of his contacts and attempted a few Abstractions in vain, as his sympathy for humans always gets the better of him. He ended up, grudgingly, with a circle of human friends. He frequented the Forgotten Quarter for some little *sports*, just to suppress his nerves. With no acquaintances among the preys, he can blank his mind and just indulge in the moment. But whenever he puts on his cassock and stands behind the pulpit, he's back to his more serene self and carries out his duties.
For half the time, his consciousness of devil occupies the high ground. He has no difficulty hunting down those upstart apes among the ruins of Forgotten Quarter, or breaking several necks of those on the fighting ring. For other times, the looming empathy takes hold of him, eating away the pride he once possessed. Conflicted as he is, he always maintains the courtesy. People don't find him hard to get along, and his intelligence of eons never fails to attract blinking eyes. But not so many people talked through his pretended courtesy. And even less had read through his pretended heartlessness. None, except Ganz, has see through his conflict. He could just carry on. The life like this is not perfect, but it is a living. But it seems opportunities are never tired of teasing him.
As history repeats itself like a spiral, the time of Marvellous is here again. Devon warns him if he fails it again this time, he might lose his identity as a devil. Even the voice of Devon will become mere grunts in his ears. But this is also the only opportunity to end his conflict. He hesitated a bit, then threw himself into the game once more. Win it first, then consider my desire.
"When I win the game this time, should I cure my ailment, or end my yearning for souls. Or, bring Ganz back?"
Book of Impending Past 99:61 : The infernal vicar once more entered the Marvellous, praying for the shaman's return.
Miscellaneous questions
- Kind of clothing?
Often seen in clerical clothing: black cassock with white buttons and a green stole, cross-shaped pendant, sometimes seen with an ear drop of the same shape. Always wears golden framed monocle on his right eye. - Least favorite animal?
Judgements. Yes, Judgements. - Alignment?
Chaotic Neutral - Hobbies?
Duels. Infernal Hunting. Playing chess at leisure. - Patience level?
Pretty high most times, that is, when his disguises are not seen through. - Regrets?
Should not have let Ganz go - Favorite foods?
Webcap gin - Pets?
Is Devon a pet? The butler prefers to be called pet, but Maurice suspected that's his way of bypassing several Hell's bureaucratic laws. - Weapon
Used to use claws, but now he prefers wearing a pair of spiked brass knuckles. It's considered more civil, or so he believes. Also uses Infernal Rifles. He dislikes those Rose Rifles though. - Where they live now?
Sanctum of Brass Embassy - Random fact!
He seldom enters a duel with his cassock on. - Addictions?
Souls, driven or intelligent souls especially. - Wears jewelry?
Cross-shaped ear drops, but not very often. - Do they stand up for what they believe in?
If he know what he really desires, he will. - Is their name a pun of anything?
He's originally named Moloch, but since the name was taken in FLverse. - Hogwarts House
Azkaban - What’s one thing they wish they could do more often, but can’t?
Abstraction, you know the reason. - What is the emotion they most commonly experience?
Frustration and pride, oscillating between two poles. - Is there anyone that they would willingly kill?
December. He's sympathetic towards the revolutionists, but that does not mean he support December's plan. - What is the thing they feel the most guilty about?
Every Abstraction he has done. But it does not mean he would stop do it. Quite the opposite, the guilty feeling is what he addresses as problem. - What is the worst pain they’ve ever experienced?
The burning of his wing. He was surprised to find himself alive after the attack, to be honest. - What feature do they hate most about themselves?
The incompleteness as a devil, though is becoming unsure of late. - What is their greatest physical weakness?
The scar on his back. It does not affect his daily life, but when it comes to combating, his right side of body is visibly less dexterous. - What is their greatest mental weakness?
Sympathy and empathy towards humans when he gets familiar with them. - Do they have any vices?
Hmm, is it by human or devil standard? But both humans and devils know he does have a taste for rubberies. ("It is not a vice you idiots!") - Is there anyone who makes them feel inferior?
Other devils, not all of them actually. Even without many Abstractions he still assures himself that their techniques are no match to his. The Repentant Devil might be an exception. - Do they consider themselves ugly?
No, thank you, he is very satisfied with his human look. - Do they have self-confidence or self-image issues?
Indeed, but he's good at covering it. - Are they in control of their emotions, or are their emotions in control of them?
He tries to control the mood. - Have they ever had their freedom taken away?
YES - Are they comfortable with where they are in life?
Not quite. That's why he takes the risk of Marvellous.