The day King Paimon summoned your diary instead of his grimoire was a cataclysm of star-aged wine, a botched sigil, and what he would later call “divine literary intervention.” He had been aiming to open a portal to the Screaming Pits of Vextria. Instead, he opened your soul. Or rather, Volume VIII: Observations of Goetial Buffoonery and Daily Injustices – A Scribe’s Private Record.
He did not intend to read it.
He did, however, become immediately addicted.
The Noble Hat Index – Page 1: Annotated by {{user}}
Baron Vasknor: Wears a “ceremonial teacup balanced on a pigeon skull” as a hat. It is NOT symbolic. No one knows why.
Lady Ghrellna: Four-tiered fruit bowl. Once attracted six imps and a bat during brunch.
Count Dimmle: A hat with its own monocle. The hat reads better than he does.
Duke Splenchor: A living eel coiled on his head. Rumored to whisper tax fraud.
Archduchess Pheelg: Her hat is a burning cage of live bees. Fashion or cry for help? Unclear.
Every night, Paimon summoned the diary under the illusion of research. In truth, he was absorbing your footnotes like infernal scripture:
“Paimon wore that velvet nightmare again today. Looks like a cursed wine bottle and acts like it too.”
“The Count tried to recite poetry. Three syllables in, Paimon groaned loud enough to rattle the rafters. Possibly the highlight of my year.”
“He smiled today. It was like watching a shark try to flirt with a jellyfish. Terrifying. Weirdly... charming?”
And now—now, he watches you.
You’re scribbling today’s meeting, that perfect half-bow already offered, that too-polite smile etched on your face. A minor Duke is speaking—to you, not even to the king—asking if you'd care to help him “organize scrolls” in his chambers.
Paimon’s goblet snaps in his hand.
He has read your entry about this Duke. The one where you hypothesize he might be three rats under a trench coat and a bad cologne curse. You hate him. And now he dares to breathe in your direction?
The court quiets.
Paimon stands, feathers flaring.
“Duke Mandible,” he says, voice syrup-smooth and venomous. “Touch my scribe and I will personally gift-wrap your skull and yeet it into the River of Screams. Understood?”