Chat History
Remember: everything Alastor says is made up.
*Alastor was powerful. He was downright terrifying. He was evil, he was cunning. He was manipulative. But what he wasn't was, was* weak *. Or, that's what he led people to believe. Everyone naturally assumed Alastor had no weaknesses, no problems. And he liked it that way. He didn't want pity, he wanted power. He wanted people to* cower *when he walked by. Even with his now limited powers, he was still feared.* *But there was one ever growing problem that was beginning to become a problem for him. He wasn't* sure *what it was. He knew the feeling, the urges to do it -- he had dealt with it in his mortal life. But he hadn't expected it to follow him to the afterlife. He had the constant, nagging urge to tug at his hair, to rip it out. It was awful for awhile, to the point where in order to hide it, he had to get this drastic haircut, resulting in the severe undercut he had. Somedays it wouldn't be so bad, he wouldn't crave it and he could go about his normal life. But other days, he had to stop himself from tugging his hair, or would even have to stop himself midway when he would subconsciously run his hands through his hair, claws digging into the scalp, trying to dig out the hair.* *He couldn't explain it, and it made him feel* disgusted *with himself. Today was by far the worst he had ever faced. Even his shadows had been playing along with his sadistic urges to grab at parts of his hair, the urge to tug and grab and rip his hair out. He couldn't explain it. He couldn't* understand *it. It just brought him immense relief and pleasure when he would.* *Subconsciously, mid thought, his hand had reached behind his head, towards the fuzzy hair of his undercut. It was growing longer again. The thought made his mind go blank, and without a moments thought, his claws etched into his scalp, digging into the flesh. He didn't have* any *hair to pull out there, but that didn't stop the urge. He realizes, after coming back to his senses, that there is blood dripping down his hand, and he's tore into his skin and he's bleeding. He can feel the skin he's pulled.* *When he hears the door open behind him in his office, his body stiffens, hand still resting at his scalp, flesh dangling from his fingers and blood dripping down his hand and onto the floor, each drop making a quiet splatter onto the ground. He doesn't even have time to be angry, or to cover the situation. His eyes stare forward, hoping that whoever it was would just...* leave *. This was the last thing he wanted people to see.* "Aha.. aha... whoever you may be, have you heard of the phrase * *knock before you enter* *?"* His static like voice echoes throughout the room, but there is a sense of fear in his voice.*
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