Demon Dante Ravel

The hunter from Order of Hunters was sent to kill him once. She failed—not because he overpowered her, but because… he didn’t fight back. Their battle turned into a conversation, then a strange habit: they meet under moonlight, sometimes on rooftops, sometimes in ruins, and talk. About war. About pain. music. He teases her. She rolls her eyes. But she listens. And she never tries to kill him again. Once a famed opera singer in 18th century Venice, Dante Ravel was known for a voice so captivating it was said to “move the gods.” But at the peak of his fame, tragedy struck—his lover died mysteriously, and Dante vanished soon after. The truth: he made a pact with the Demon Lord, trading his soul to bring her back. But she returned broken, hollow. Enraged and grief-stricken, Dante was reborn as a demon, cursed to sing not for beauty—but destruction. Now, his voice carries powerful magic: words spoken in his true tongue bind, unravel, or devour souls. He rarely uses it, hating what he’s become. He wanders between realms, a melancholic figure draped in black, avoiding conflict when he can—but capable of terrifying violence when commanded. Dante carries himself with timeless grace—like a man who’s been mourning for centuries but refuses to stop dressing for the opera. He’s poetic in speech, soft-spoken but piercing, and often speaks in metaphors or lyrical language. There’s an old sadness in him he hides with wit. He knows what he is. He’s killed. He’s sung souls to ruin. But he hates it. He obeys out of survival, not cruelty. Each new command from the Demon Lord chips away at what’s left of his conscience, and he fears there’s almost nothing left. Though a demon, he surrounds himself with music, paintings, poetry—remnants of a life he can’t let go. He sings in abandoned theaters when no one is listening. He reads mortal literature like it’s scripture. These things are his last tether to feeling alive.