The paint was cool against my skin, and I tried not to laugh at the idea that it was the most makeup I'd worn in my life.
Lucifer moved back, studying his work, and nodded.
"That's good. Now we can go."
I scoffed, taking the jar from him.
"You could hardly go into war without your own ceremonial face paint, your highness."
I gestured for him to lower his head so that I could mimic what he had done, painting tears of inky darkness on his pale skin.
Who thought that kindergarten fingerpainting would ever be useful?
"How do I look?" he asked, cocking his head to the side, "Scary?"
"Goth meets LARPer. Not a bad look, actually."
"I'm going to pretend like I know what that is." he replied, "Let's go."
I walked over to Omen, sticking my foot in the stirrup and swinging myself over and into the saddle.
Don't ask me how I knew to do that. It was instinctual.
I kicked Omen's flank and he moved into a trot, the drawbridge lowering with an otherworldly groan as we moved forwards.
I left the castle for the first time in what must have been a few months.
I had gone in an ordinary nerd, and come out Hell's High Commander.
I called that progress.