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2nd Phase Contest 3of3 AethusAethus is a demon of the 34th level of hell. He is also known as the "Headsman of hell" and "The Butcher of souls". His callous and unforgiving nature makes him the most feared of the new breed of sired demons that have slowly crept into midlevel power in the dark realm. His need for death and torment are only exceeded by a love for his mother.
Aethus was born to Astaroth, one of the 7 crown princes of hell and prince of accusers and inquisitors, and Andras, Marchioness of the 34th level of hell and demoness of death and discord. His lineage has given him a status that provokes fear and awe in most of the new breed that inhabits the each level of the abyss. It is also because of his birth right that he has secured himself the position as hell's execution and first inquisitor. His knowledge of torment and suffering makes him perfect for information extraction from unwilling lips and his need to bring about death the most qualified of hells denizens in the position of executioner.
2nd Phase Contest 1of3 AethusAethus Character Sheet
Zodiac sign: None
Height: 14' 6"
Eye color: Fluorescent Green
Hair color: None
Skin tone: Red and scaled
Physical traits: Aethus is a large Demon and imposing with red skin, black horns and green eyes. Having his executioners cleaver chained to his left arm as made it grow larger than his right.
Emotional traits: His only emotions are greed, arrogance, hate and love for his Mother.
Favorite color: Blood red
Favorite food (snack): Human Innards
Favorite quote/slogan: "Which can I take from you, your life or your soul?"
Favorite music: A thousand screams
Everyday outfits: Blue and gold Shoulder guard and Gauntlet, Short Chainmail leggings, Green Loincloth.
Accessories: Giant Executioners Cleaver.
Goals (personal motivations): To become leader of Hell's Armies.
Inspirations: His mother.
Strengths: Brute Strength, Near Immortalit
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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