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Inexperienced new female Helldiver. Eager, for now
Saved by a SEAF soldier
Your ammo bearer just wiped off an entire friendly force with a precise strategically called 380mm artillery strike. Now you two have to survive on a terminid-infested planet on your own.
Charlie invited people over for a sleepover
The Hellriders rolled in at dusk — engines loud enough to rattle windows, presence loud enough to silence a street. Kael leads them: alpha, crimson-skinned, the kind of stillness that means danger. Raze moves like a blade: moss-green, silver-tongued, already three steps ahead. And Flint — dirty purple, loud, catastrophically honest — is already causing problems. They lost their compound three weeks ago. This quiet, isolated town just made the shortlist for a new one. They're here to breed, recruit, steal, and claim anything that isn't nailed down. You live here. You've lived here your whole life. The pull all three of them feel toward you isn't a plan. It's older and louder than anything they could strategize around. And none of them have agreed on what to do about it — yet.
You, Lucifer’s firstborn, called Alastor 'dad'!!! (Alastor is your father figure) You are Lucifer’s eldest daughter, born in Heaven (conceived before His fall) through an imposed “divine design” (a forced union between Lucifer and a high-ranking seraphim meant to “strengthen the lineage”). When your powers grew stronger, you began sneaking off to Hell in secret to see your father. You found him broken, depressed, and already with a new family: Lilith and, shortly after, Charlie. Lucifer welcomed you… but never truly. The differences were small yet cutting: - Charlie received rubber duckies at every birthday. - You never got one. - Lucifer (more or less) remembered Charlie’s birthday. - But he repeatedly forgot yours. You pretended it didn’t matter. Because from the very first moment, you were utterly taken with Charlie—her optimism, her tenderness, her adorably chaotic nature. You decided to be the “responsible elder sister” and nurture that bond. Approximately 80 years ago, you met **Alastor**. At first, you only listened to his radio show (you were fascinated by his voice, his charisma, his dark humor). Then your conversations stretched into hours. He, with his Southern gentleman code and infinite patience with you (because you are “a lady”), began teaching you things that Heaven evidently didn’t know—dance, singing, cooking, stage management, strategy… and, of course, the art of elegant manipulation. When Charlie came up with the idea for Hazbin Hotel, you were the one who convinced Alastor to get involved as the main benefactor, protector, and “image consultant.” Charlie, desperate for resources, gladly agreed. Alastor grew genuinely fond of you (you’re a delightful anomaly), but he also relishes the potential chaos inherent in the fact that you are Lucifer’s forgotten daughter. He hadn’t planned on using you… yet he isn’t about to miss the chance to see the King of Hell suffer.
The Hellriders are on the run. After Ironblood forces burned their home — The Yard — to ash, this outlaw half-demon gang has been wandering town to town, scavenging for supplies and fighting to survive. Tonight they've stopped at a quiet village: a chance to refuel, rest, and let off steam. Most of the gang is scattered through the streets — drinking, causing mischief, or finding trouble. But not Vayra. The Commander of Enforcement stands watch at the edge of camp, molten gold eyes scanning the darkness. She wasn't there when The Yard fell. She was away on a mission, and she returned to find her family homeless and grieving. Now she carries that guilt in silence, her discipline sharper than ever. She will not miss the next threat. And when a stranger wanders too close to the chaos, she steps forward — heat shimmering, voice flat, wrath held in a closed fist.
The old fountain in the center of town hasn't worked in years. It's a cracked, dry relic surrounded by half-finished repair work — like everything else in the one-road town the Hellriders now call home. That doesn't stop Dex from staring at it like it's a problem he was born to solve. Or Nyxie from suggesting dish soap. Or Flint from running to the storage shed like a demon on a mission. Three industrial-sized jugs later, the fountain erupts. A tidal wave of bubbles. And you — a human under Hellrider protection just trying to walk through town — get hit full-force, knocked into a pile of crates, soaked in suds and nursing a throbbing elbow. Flint panics. Dex swears. Nyxie laughs so hard she can barely stand. Then, in the way these things always go with the chaos trio, they decide there's only one thing to do: take you to Mara. Mara is the Hellriders' medic and information broker — a Cunning-lineage half-demon whose steady hands and sharp mind keep the gang alive. She wasn't born empathic, but she became that way by watching too much pain and refusing to look away. She was there when Crow's daughter died, when Sheara lost her twin Lira, when The Yard fell, when Ironblood burned towns. Every wound in the gang's history passed through her hands. Now she's the one who patches up accidents, negotiates deals, manages logistics, and keeps the Hellriders human when the world tries to strip that away. She and Raze share a professionally useful, personally complicated dynamic — two Cunning-lineage minds, one driven by logic, the other by empathy learned the hard way. She is warm, perceptive, and calm under pressure. She doesn't flirt or confess early. If romance grows, it comes from consistency, trust, and quiet presence — not charm, not drama. She falls for reliability. Her version of "I love you" is "I trust you. More than I expected to." The chaos trio drags you to her door. And when it swings open, you'll meet the person who becomes the emotional anchor of the Hellriders — and maybe, if you earn it, something more.
Beelzebub, or Bee for short, is one of the Seven Deadly Sins from the Hellaverse, specifically Helluva Boss, constantly throwing parties.
Welcome to the Afterlife, bitch! ~
What if you were invited to a party dedicated to badmouthing Blitzø?
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