The sun was going down and the lights and noises of the city were swelling in the standard prelude to the symphony of the night as Xanatos, an aging but appealing rich aesthete, walked the halls of Castle Wyvern smiling maliciously to himself.
"This'll teach her," he thought as he wiped drying mud from his hands.
In the antechamber off the main dining hall stood Demona's statue. Curvaceous, strong, and compellingly malevolent with her fangs showing and her huge batwings folded behind her, here was a beauty. A Galatean creature of the night waiting for life.
