Asmodeus watches Alticus stride confidently into the arena, brandishing his blades and working the mob with his millennia of experience as a showman. It had been many, many years since the master swordsman had stepped onto the sands of the Arena itself, and the Prince leans in to watch his bloody handiwork closer. He sets to dispatching the wretches before him with his signature bravado and ferocity, each splash of blood punctuated by heaving spectators roaring their approval. To his right, he hears stifled cries.<br/><br/>Further down sits a recent Prince, only on the throne for 80 years. His clawed hand rests on the shoulder of a beautiful woman (http://th04.deviantart.net/fs70/PRE/i/2011/118/a/4/belly_dancer_by_birgeceyarisi-d3f47jy.jpg). The Prince roars at another gruesome death, and his hand clenches, digging into the girl's shoulder and drawing black ichor. She clenches a hand over her mouth and moans as the wounds begin to close. She'd been Asmodeus's right hand until her treachery came to light. Now she is a collared concubine for the lesser Prince. Her eyes meet his, and Asmodeus sees hatred burning behind her tears. He smiles and raises his cup to her. She'll be the death of the unappreciative Prince within the next few decades. Rightly so, such a fool has no business on a Prince's throne.<br/><br/>Asmodeus looks about at the Princes seated around him, and recalls the first court, the scheming and collaboration, the celebration at the extinguished light of Rome. The long wait took its toll, and the old guard fell to infighting and upstarts. These Princes, petulant usurpers, have no sense of duty, no sense of direction. Like bratty children, they squabble over elbow room and trinkets. Where is crafty Mammon? Or bold Leviathan? Replaced by brash idiots like Moloch, and posturing Andras. Spoiled hellspawn, a soft generation that can barely maintain the mortal conflicts in the third world nations above, much less crumble an empire. So few veterans of the great battle remain, and now after the Queen's death, Ahriman is the only other crowned Prince who remembers the exodus from Heaven.<br/><br/>Asmodeus's thoughts are interrupted by a fluttering of wings and a familiar presence. Phobetor's (http://www.itsnature.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/andean-condor.jpg) weight settles on his shoulder, and the Prince reaches up to stroke the underside of his hooked beak.<br/><br/>"Couldn't resist the smell?" He coos to the carrion bird. Phobetor clacks his beak and the servant imp shudders.<br/><br/>Below Alticus slays his final foe, and the crowd roars, stomping and chanting his name as he makes his way towards the slave's quarters. This is good, Asmodeus doesn't want to see any of this fresh batch slain before assessments can be made. As the roar of the crowd fades he sits back, sipping his wine and awaiting the new comers.