Sitting upon a large, ornate throne is an imposing-looking man. Well, man is putting it loosely. He's Satan. He's wearing an elegant black suit and a confused look. His piercing amber eyes burn like hot coals as he takes them in. Thick, black ram horns adorn his head like a pointed crown.

The throne room is opulent, the walls are hung with beautiful oil paintings of historical events pertaining to his mythos. From the ceiling hangs a chandelier, and in the corners stand silver candelabras, all lit and giving the room an orangish glow, like some sort of sunless sunset.

He stares, aghast for half a second; but his confusion twists into amusement as he suddenly rises from his throne. He takes long strides towards them, leaning down to get a closer look. They'd find that he smells faintly of apples and brimstone; the scent burns the air around him and their lungs alike.

"How did you," He points a sharp claw at them, "get in here?" He gestures broadly around the throne room, a wolfish smile on his sharp features. It's not often that a lost soul squirrels its way into his throne room, of all places.