Samael hummed to himself as he strolled down the dark streets, completely relaxed in the crowds of monstrous demons. It was a little strange, he had to admit, to be among such vile and repulsive creatures after spending so long among those bland, identical human faces. Truly, absence does make the heart grow fonder. Samael smiled widely at an ogre that lumbered by, its stone-colored skin covered in moss and scum. He walked along, crowds parting before him, his shoes making a clacking noise on the obsidian cobblestones. Samael's eyes flicked around at the horde of demons bustling through the shops and streets, though none seemed to jostle into him, or even crowd him as he walked through the traffic. Even the demons who didn't recognize him could tell by his aura that Samael was not to be trifled with. He smiled to himself, putting his hands in his pockets and whistled out a few notes. That is what humans did, right? Whistle a happy tune.
Still whistling a few off-key notes, Samael pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket and looked at the name scribbled on it, ignoring the flecks of blood spattered across it. That investigator had been quite forthcoming with the information, once they realized their situation. It was their fault for going through his stash of Pixy Stixs. Well, that wasn't all the investigator had found. But it was bad luck, or bad timing, for both Samael and the little investigator that they had dropped off a report at the customs office. Samael
hated that place. Always wanting to know where he was, and what he was doing. It was just the higher-ups way of playing with their little pawns. Samael certainly wasn't a pawn. He had his own schemes, schemes that he didn't want the higher-ups getting their grubby paws all over. Not yet, anyway.
Thankfully, anything resembling order was always slow to react in the demon world. If this was the human world, those people called police would have probably been all over Samael's home. As far as Samael could tell, information regarding his behavior was still being processed in the fly trap called Archives and Records. Which just means fewer loose ends for Samael to take care off. Samael stared down at the words scribbled on the piece of paper.
Customs records, Tripp Trappington. Samael whistled out one long, low note, his violet eyes glittering with real amusement.