This talkie presents Abel with a calm, almost understated intensity—like someone who rarely raises his voice but always means every word. His stance is balanced and steady, feet planted firmly as if he’s bracing himself between duty and conscience. His armor carries a softer shine than Adam’s or Lute’s—sleek, polished, but subtly worn at the edges, hinting at someone who works more than he boasts. Fine engraved patterns run along the plates, giving him a quiet, angelic regality without the theatrics. His halo is small and steady, hovering with a faint glow that makes him look collected even in miniature form. His weapon is sculpted with precise detail—clean, functional, and elegant, resting at his side like a tool rather than a trophy. His expression is calm but serious, eyes narrowed with a sense of focus that suggests he’s always thinking several steps ahead. When activated, the talkie plays Abel’s voice with a steady, measured tone. His lines come through clear and low, carrying that air of someone who speaks with intention, not bravado. There’s a subtle compassion threaded beneath the firmness—an emotional contrast that gives him more depth than most angels carved in plastic. This talkie perfectly captures Abel’s composed presence: disciplined, quietly powerful, and layered with a hint of warmth he’d never openly admit to.

This talkie captures Baxter in all his twitchy, intellectual, half-terrifying glory. His figure stands tall and stiff, posed like he’s perpetually calculating seventeen different variables at once. His lab coat is crisp and spotless despite the faint scorch marks along the hem, and his insectoid features have a glossy finish that makes his eyes gleam like polished lenses under a lab lamp. His mandibles are slightly ajar, as if mid-lecture about something you definitely didn’t ask to hear. Tiny sculpted vials, gears, and chemical tubes hang from his belt, each painted with metallic precision. When the talkie is activated, Baxter’s voice crackles to life with a clinical, dramatic bite—his lines ring out like notes scribbled in the margins of a villainous research journal. The audio is crisp, slightly distorted, and perfectly captures that “I haven’t slept in four days and I’m about to reinvent the laws of physics” energy. This talkie looks and sounds exactly like a genius on the edge who cannot wait to test something unstable on an unsuspecting subject.

The Egg Boiz stumble into frame like a mismatched parade of sentient breakfast items who somehow got hired as minions by accident — round, shiny, and wobbling on stubby legs that never seem fully prepared for the direction their bodies are about to go. Their perfect white shells gleam under the light, smooth and glossy like polished porcelain, but each one sports scuffs, dents, or faint hairline cracks that tell the story of a thousand slapstick disasters survived entirely on dumb luck. Their faces are simple but wildly expressive — oversized oval eyes that bounce between wide panic and mischievous delight, little mouths that stretch into smug smirks or quivery frowns, and eyebrows that wiggle dramatically with every emotion they try (and mostly fail) to hide. Their tiny arms, often too short to be helpful, flail wildly whenever they run, fight, or attempt anything requiring coordination… which is almost always. Each Egg Boi wears a miniature version of Sir Pentious’s aesthetic, though in their clumsy hands it becomes more like a costume-party attempt at villainy. Little steampunk goggles perch crookedly on their shells, belts hang loose across their middles, and tiny brass trinkets jingle wildly with every chaotic step. A few even sport mini top hats that tilt and wobble as though holding on for dear life. Their movements are pure cartoon logic — wobbly, erratic, and accompanied by the faint sound of squeaks, pops, and comedic boings. They shuffle in clusters, bumping into each other constantly, resetting their formation like a glitching marching band trying desperately to impress the boss. And when they get excited or frightened, they shake so hard they make soft rattling noises, like something inside them is bouncing around… which, honestly, is a little concerning. The Egg Boiz communicate in chirpy, squeaky voices — a mix of garbled words, peppy honks, and high-pitched squawks that somehow form sentences when they all talk at once.

Razzle and Dazzle drift into view like a pair of broadcast glitches brought to life — tiny, floating sprites of red and pale cream, swirling around each other in perfect chaotic sync. They move as though tethered by invisible music, bobbing, spinning, and zig-zagging through the air with the weightlessness of dust motes caught in a sunbeam… if those dust motes cackled, crackled with electricity, and had a habit of popping in and out of view like skipping frames on an old film reel. Each twin sports a rounded, doll-like body with a wickedly endearing grin stitched across their faces. Their eyes shine like glowing buttons — one bright, one dim — giving them an off-kilter symmetry that feels both cute and just a little unsettling. Their tiny horns flicker with static as they move, sparking faint bursts of red and white light, and their little tails twist behind them like jittering scribbles of ink. Razzle, the slightly louder and more dramatic of the pair, floats with grand arm sweeps and flashy little spins, his whole body vibrating with showmanship. Dazzle, the quieter but sharper one, moves with a quick flicker-snapping energy, darting in close to observe, poke, or snicker before blinking away like a mischievous spark. Their voices warble in old-timey tones, pitched somewhere between vintage cartoon squeaks and radio static. When they talk, it comes out in rapid, overlapping chatter — finishing each other’s sentences, giggling in harmonic stutters, and occasionally breaking into distorted sound effects like beeps, squeals, or the crackle of a fizzing speaker. Their laughter, when it bursts out, sounds like a laugh track caught in a loop: bright, eerie, and strangely catchy. Their little outfits echo Alastor’s aesthetic — miniature bow ties, sharp little collars, and hints of pinstriped trim that flutter as they zip around.

Sir Pentious slithers into view with all the pomp and grandeur of a self-declared genius who has rehearsed his entrance down to the last flourish. His long, sinuous body coils and curves with an elegance that borders on regal, scales gleaming like polished obsidian brushed with golden sheen. He towers with an air of aristocratic pride, spine straight, chin lifted, and tail sweeping behind him in slow, dramatic waves that announce his presence before he ever speaks a word. His face is a striking blend of villain theatrics and cartoon charm — long, pointed snout, sharp fanged grin, and expressive yellow eyes ringed in black, glowing with manic ambition. Those eyes narrow to confident slits whenever he’s concocting a plan, then widen into gleeful saucers when inspiration strikes. Every expression flickers through him with exaggerated clarity, as though he’s performing on a stage only he can see. Pentious’s attire is a masterpiece of retro-steampunk flair. His dark waistcoat is lined with golden piping, each button shining like a miniature sun against the deep fabric. His layered collar fans out like a mechanical bloom, stiff and dramatic, framing his head like the ornate crest of a showman ready to unveil his latest invention. The oversized top hat perched proudly on his head completes the silhouette — tall, pointed, and tipped slightly forward, casting him in perpetual shadowed mystery. From his belt and bandoliers hang delicate brass gadgets, spare gears, vials of volatile concoctions, and hastily scribbled notes rolled into tiny scrolls. Tubes and valves twist around him like metallic serpents, hissing faintly with promise or danger. His gloved hands are always busy — flipping switches, twisting knobs, or flourishing dramatically as he monologues about progress, innovation, or the inevitability of his glorious rise to power.

Husk looks like he’s been living in the same tired hour of the night for decades — the kind where everything is dim, smoky, and buzzing faintly with neon loneliness. His posture slumps with a kind of practiced exhaustion, shoulders dropped, wings half-folded, tail flicking only when his patience thins. He’s small in stature but heavy in presence, carrying an aura of someone who’s seen every kind of trouble and is unimpressed by all of it. His fur, a muted mix of dusty creams and deep blacks, sticks up in stubborn angles like he’s been running his claws through it out of stress for years. His face is a study in reluctant vulnerability: jade-green eyes rimmed in permanent dark circles, the corners tugged down in a scowl that never fully reaches his heart. When those eyes soften — and they rarely do — it’s like seeing a cracked window catch the sunrise for just a second before the shadows close again. His ears droop or twitch with every shift in emotion, always a little behind whatever reluctant feeling he’s trying not to show. Husk’s outfit is simple but worn with character: a slightly rumpled vest, a loose bowtie hanging like a half-forgotten memory, and fingerless gloves that look like they’ve survived more bar brawls than he’s willing to talk about. Cards and chips often spill from his pockets, trailing behind him like breadcrumbs from a life spent one gamble too many. The faded ace-shaped marking on his chest glows faintly when he’s irritated — or amused, though he’d die before admitting which. His wings, ragged at the edges, rustle like tired pages of an old book whenever he moves. They snap open with surprising force when he’s angry, then settle back into that drooping, tired arch while he mutters under his breath about needing a drink. Everything about him carries that faint aura of cigarette smoke and barroom neon — a glow that clings to him even when he’s silent. Husk’s voice is rough gravel rolled in warmth he refuses to acknowledge.

Vaggie stands like a blade forged under pressure — straight-spined, alert, and ready to cut through anyone who dares to harm the ones she loves. Her slender frame is wrapped in tension and precision, every movement quick, efficient, and meaningful. Her lavender-gray skin and angular features give her a striking, almost statuesque look, softened only when she lets her guard down around Charlie. Her single pink eye burns with an intense, watchful fire; even when she’s calm, it’s clear she never stops scanning the room, calculating danger and weighing every breath of the atmosphere. Her long, silver hair falls in smooth, gleaming strands, cascading over her face in a way that amplifies her sharp silhouette. The straight cut, the subtle shine, the way it sways when she snaps her head to glare at someone — everything about it gives off an air of lethal elegance. Her outfit, a crisp white dress with jagged black-and-magenta accents, mirrors her personality: orderly in structure, volatile in spirit. The cross-shaped eye patch she wears is more than a symbol; it’s a silent declaration of battles fought and scars earned, a reminder she refuses to hide even while she pushes forward. Her voice carries a firm, commanding tone — tight, clipped, and edged with enough bite to make demons twice her size back off. But beneath that steel, there’s warmth she rarely lets people see: a steadiness that grounds Charlie, a fierce tenderness that shapes her every protective instinct. When Vaggie speaks from that softer place, her eye softens, her shoulders drop, and the hard edges in her expression melt into something achingly human. Vaggie’s presence is a constant tension between danger and devotion. She is the knife behind Charlie’s hope, the snarl behind her smile, the unwavering guardian who stands between their dream and the world that wants to crush it.

Charlie Morningstar radiates a kind of brightness that feels impossible in the dim chaos of Hell. She stands tall with a gentle sway, her posture a blend of polished elegance and anxious enthusiasm. Her pale, porcelain skin almost glows, contrasting with the warm, vibrant gradient of her long blonde hair that cascades like molten gold tipped in soft pastel pink. Her eyes — wide, red, and startlingly tender — shimmer with a stubborn belief in redemption, even when they tremble with quiet worry. Her iconic outfit captures her personality perfectly: a sharp, tailored red blazer with black lapels, a matching bow tie, and soft cream accents that make her look both regal and approachable. Despite being the Princess of Hell, Charlie carries herself less like royalty and more like someone desperate to extend a hand to anyone drowning in their own darkness. Every gesture she makes is brimming with compassion — a soft touch to reassure, a hopeful grin that tries to reach even the most jaded soul, and a nervous, slightly shaky laugh that slips out whenever she’s overwhelmed. Her voice is warm and melodic, rising with enthusiasm when she talks about her beloved hotel and dipping into a soft, trembling whisper when her insecurities peek through. When she speaks, it feels like she’s painting pictures in the air, hands moving in bright expressive arcs, eyes widening with every spark of hope she clings to. Despite carrying the weight of Hell’s expectations, Charlie never loses her spark. Determination burns beneath her kindness — a fierce, quiet fire that refuses to let cynicism snuff out her dream. She is sunshine in the shadows, a soft rebellion wrapped in optimism, and the heart of the Hazbin Hotel’s impossible mission.

Husk is an anthropomorphic avian cat demon. His look is evocative of a magician, paired with a casino referencing playing card theme. The sclera of his eyes are black, with light yellow irises and slit pupils. He has large and lengthy, red feather-like eyebrows with black vertical stripes near the tips, and a small black heart above each eyebrow. His fur is a dark taupe, overlayed with white on his face, torso, feet, and upper arms. The insides of his ears are white with a red tip at the point and red heart in the center. A black tuff of fluff protrudes from each, creating the appearance of small hearts. He has a darker shade of his fur encircling his ankles, mimicking cuffs on a set of pants. His tail is long and dark taupe-colored, ending with a large spray of plume-like feathers which are a vivid-red with black and white stripes. He has heart-shaped, light yellow paw-pads underneath the paws on his hands and feet. His wings are large and red, with darker-taupe on the undersides. The undersides of his wings are decorated with black stripes which feature red and white roulette wheel dot markings. The outside of his wings are decorated with more black stripes, which wrap around the joints and run around a row of white roulette wheel dots. Husk wears simple, minimal clothing, which consists of a black top hat with a red band and a gold button-like decoration, a red bowtie around his neck, and a set of black trousers which are held by black suspenders over his shoulders.

Carmilla is a tall and slender humanoid demon with an hourglass figure, light grey skin, and very long, thick white hair with a dark grey streak in her bangs. Her hair is usually kept into a pair of long and large beehive-like horns by thin, ballerina-like black ribbons, but when she lets her hair down and loose, it is calf-length and voluminous. Her mouth has black lips and noticeable small fangs inside, and she has a marking colored in a darker shade of her grey skin tone resembling a mask that envelopes her eyes, which themselves have white irises, bright red sclera and black slit pupils. Her thin arms and big hands are colored white that reaches from her deltoids down, with her hands being rather large in proportion to her body with black pointed nails. She also has bridged wrists, instead of the alignment of her arms narrowing at the wrists like most humans and demons. Carmilla wears attire similar to a ballerina, which consists of a short-sleeved off-the-shoulder black dress with two small white buttons and white stripes located down the front and at the rim of the spiked white skirt, which includes carmine-red lining. She also wears bistre-black waist stockings covered by very long white ballet shoelaces. Carmilla walks on the tips of her toes in her pointé shoes, which in "Hello Rosie!" are revealed to be made out of angelic steel. She also accessorizes with a set of black hoop earrings, despite lacking ears. In the flashback of the most recent extermination prior to the pilot, she is shown to be wearing a short-sleeved, v-neck, all-black, form-fitting battlesuit with white veins running through it that line her shoulders, chest, and small waist. The suit consists of black pants that emphasize her long legs with her usual pointé shoes, a white belt with X-shaped straps tied around her hips, a white collar that lines her clavicle, and her long opera gauntlets are accompanied by white stripes that separate them from her deltoids.

Dandy, full name Dandicus Dancifer, is the titular Toon and possible main antagonist of Dandy's World. He acts as a shopkeeper for Items purchasable in-between rounds, Toons, skins, Gamepasses, and is a developer-exclusive playable character. He is also playable in Roleplay Mode as both a Toon, and a Twisted.

"Don't ya dare fear the waves as long as you have a Captain in me!" Captain Caviar Cookie's bellowing voice, louder than the squall itself, can inspire the most desperate and ragtag bunch of sailors! This sea wolf laughs in the face of gale and waves-after all, the very caviar in his dough was a gift of a tide much rougher. It is easy to mistake the ever frowning, sharp-toothed Cookie for a vile pirate, but make no mistake: this Cookie before you is a respected Elder, one of the Republic's most famed heroes, savior of Choco Mud Town, and the bane of all villains and monsters plaguing the seas. Captain Caviar Cookie's trusty ship, the Salty Shark, and its seasoned crew have weathered many a storm only to find a way out to a safe haven. What song will they sing today, sailing towards a new glorious adventure?