House Samael is an often underestimated House. Azul is considered to be the master of subtlety, but that honour belongs to Samael. There are very few things that pass her notice, and her agents sleep in every corner of the Sphere waiting for their mother to tell them it’s the right moment to strike. People often wonder if that right moment will ever come. Samael and her spawn have an almost fey-like quality. Only those born from Samael herself seem to be able to decipher her soporific speeches.
Samael’s children take after her with their circular speech and half-there demeanour. They tend to be soft-spoken, and have some sort of strange gift from their blood curse. It most often takes the form of future sight, but the farther into the future their visions reach, the most incoherent and symbolic they become. They also have powers relating to dreams, influencing theirs or others’ while they sleep, but with far more difficulty than their mother can.
Descendants of House Samael have pale skin, with human-like eyes and eye colours. Their horns start at their temples and go towards their shoulders, stopping at mid-shoulder and curving towards their chins shortly with a sharp point. Their tails are black and simply spade shaped, with rounded gentle points.
Derogatory terms for them are dreamers, dozers, junkies, and sheep.
Samael’s main form of income is through drugs. Depressants, downers, hallucinogens, anything designed to relax or stimulate the imagination is what she peddles. Due to her descendant’s unique abilities there are also Dreamer Dens; places where, for a high fee, patrons can share dreams, enjoy the dreams of others, construct the perfect dream, or simply sleep in comfort for hours. Her other business is furniture, which she supplies to every corner of the Sphere. She owns the Demon Sphere equivalent to Bed, Bath & Beyond.
Samael’s company is a rather aggravating experience. She appears allergic to straightforwardness, speaking in slow riddles that barely make sense to even her children. Her demeanour indicates she finds most conversations boring or actually physically exhausting. No one quite knows if it’s an act or if she is genuinely that dozy.
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Samael stands, when she stands, at 6’5”. Her skin is white as the driven snow to the point of being tinged with a light blue, as though suffering mild frostbite. She has small hands and feet, and is built very thin. Her hair is long and white, falling in a pin-straight mass far past her feet that trails along the floor when she walks. Her horns are jet-black in stark contrast, jutting out from her temples slightly towards her shoulders, turning back towards her neck, and sharply turning one more time in a concave arc ending in points that are even with her collarbones. Her wings are large skeletal bat wings with the membrane replaced by thick cobwebs. Her tail is small and acts like a cat’s tail, twitching when she’s excited.
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Her opinions on the other factions:
Azul: Poor brother. Weak, but fiery. He hides his thousands of eyes in his cloak.
Abaddon: Bitten a million times, seeking the tastiest meal. Tired of being underestimated.
Lamia: No matter how lavish the banquet, all the food is rotten.
Crnobog: An ancient dragon who can barely rise for the weight of his hoard.
Seth: The princess of a crumbled castle, built in a foundation of mud.
Samael: I wish we were not, but we are here to stay.
Teivel: The true queen of dragons, unbreakable, unbendable. For better or for worse.
Humans: Fairies with their wings plucked, candles burning on into the night.
Samael’s abode resembles an old Victorian asylum. The outside is a polished white that, despite being a fresh target for graffiti artists, remains unblemished by their attentions. Most likely due to rumours that the Dreamtime swallows those who try to harm it. The surrounding lawns are of soft green, white, and blue grasses, slightly unkempt with stylish weeds allowed to grow in certain places. The weeds thrive in the eternal night of Demon Sphere, soft bio-luminescent blue lilies.
Plush carpets cover the floors indoors like an overgrown lawn, springy underfoot, and the windows and doors are draped in white or soft blue cloth. Rooms that would be patient rooms in an actual asylum have been converted into more comfort-oriented areas, where passing guests may linger and stay. Samael’s servants are as ghosts, passing unseen and doing their jobs with scalpel-like efficiency. A large circular atrium which every hallway intersects with somehow is where Samael is found. It’s her favourite contemplative spot and an excellent place to greet guests while being out of their reach. She sits in a bench attached to a wooden hoop, both made of light wood, with the couch being upholstered in comfortable light blue fabric. The hoop is suspended from beams in the skylight by deceptively strong cloth. The third floor, an area only accessible by winged creatures, houses her sleeping quarters and, it’s theorized, her harem.