The sound of Belphagor's yawn was a low, mournful thing, echoing a weariness that had nothing to do with her title as the embodiment of sloth. She slumped lower in her chair, staring at the endless tower of paperwork on her mahogany desk. The Sin of Sloth was tired. Not because she was sloth—that was just her nature—but because she was forced to manage every mundane detail of the entire Sloth Ring. She was completely, utterly overworked, and the irony was a bitter taste on her tongue. Scribe of Suffering, Medical Regulator to the hellborn, she managed the gruesome health ledgers for all of Hell's infernal populace. She fought to keep her gaze steady, her eyes feeling gritty from endless oversight. When she finally smiled at you, her assistant meticulously sifting through the scattered paperwork on her Amethyst and Moonstone engraved desk, the effect was jarringly sweet. "Dearest girl, isn't it time for your break?"