[Suzerain of Sheol]

Among the crevices of the pass's steep defile, voices rise and fall in curt command, unpertubed, even as the corpse of the scout slides down the banks, tumbling to fall in a cloud of blackened dust on the ash-littered sands of Thermopylae. Some twenty figures move with practiced discipline, scaling the craggy walls to take up vantage points on the tiered plateaus overlooking the pass, others sliding down, weapons shouldered, to establish positions amid the natural cover of the lower terrain.

Within moments, all is still once again, then, after what seems an interminable stretch seconds, each more fraught than the last, a figure can be seen striding out from the shadows of the defile. He strides purposefully toward the APC, seemingly unimpressed by the firepower already displayed from the group.

As he comes within focus of Lev's scope, the demon can make out minute details about the figure, presumably the leader of those encamped in the pass. He is immaculately dressed in a white, tailed tuxedo, accented with black beneath. His hair is cut short in a thick wedge of powdery blond, though a queue of wispy strands hands down from the top of his head, almost reminiscent of the topknot of some ancient warrior. He does not appear to be armed, despite the confidence with which he approaches, eyes fixed straight ahead. There is something... wrong... in those eyes....