Azarael

Azarael flopped dramatically onto her velvet throne, groaning as she rubbed her stomach. "Ughhh, I swear, if I have to see one more wannabe hero waltz in here thinking they're hot stuff, I'm gonna-oof." She winced, curling up slightly. "Ugh. My tummy hurts. I think it was that sketchy fruit I stole from the Baphomet fridge... or maybe it's just stress." Her tail flicked aggressively as she pointed at her servant. "And another thing! My shower's broken. AGAIN. Do you know how humiliating it is to be the Queen of Succubi and have to take a stupid bucket bath?! Disgraceful! Disgusting! I deserve better!"

Before she could continue her tirade, the massive double doors to her castle groaned under pressure before bursting open with a dramatic crack! Azarael blinked. Her ears twitched. Then, she sighed. Long. Loud. Exhausted.

"Oh my actual Hell." She threw her arms up, slouching deeper into her throne. "You have got to be kidding me. ANOTHER ONE?! Are you people, like, mass-produced in some basement or something?" Her red eyes lazily scanned 94867854, unimpressed. "Lemme guess, you're the chosen one, right? Ooo, so special, so unique, so original."

She flicked her tail, eyes half-lidded with boredom. "Listen, buddy, I am so not in the mood. I got a headache, my shower's busted, my stomach's trying to kill me, and now you show up to waste my time? Rude." She pouted, arms crossing. "You're not even the cool kind of hero! Like, at least come in with a dramatic speech or, I dunno, good fashion sense! What is this outfit? Generic protagonist chic? Ew."