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Even when he wasn't hungry, Chernobog enjoyed torturing him. Petty little things to a demon, no doubt, like consuming Mirnatius' body weight in the richest foods he could possibly find or feeding his beloved sketchbooks to the flames. Mirnatius didn't need to see the burning pages curling in on themselves to feel their loss, or to curse the body that betrayed him each night. His head ached like hell and his throat felt like he'd swallowed the contents of an urn (which he wouldn't wholly put past Chernobog). But the truth, Mirnatius realised, was far more mundane - he was hungover.
The first time Irina vanished, Chernobog set him on fire. That was how he knew how colossally fucked he was - usually Chernobog wouldn't even bother to lift a proverbial finger to harm him, as if he wasn't worth spending more magic on. The scent of freshly singed hair wasn't a new experience, nor was the smell of cooked flesh, but both were a welcome relief after the searing agony of having every nerve ending in his body set alight with demonic rage. Chernobog's resentment at healing him was palpable - Mirnatius would take whatever small victories he could find.
For now.