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<b>Agmon/Judas</b><br/>
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Falling, was perhaps the most serene moment of his entire experience in Hell. For just a moment, he could imagine the end. Pain—followed by absolute darkness. Before he could even reach the scalding magma, his skin was blistered red by the steam and for the first time in a long time, he managed to produce a scream. It was animalistic, purely reflexive to the pain—which seemed to last somewhere between 3 seconds and an eternity. At some point he found himself beneath the magma, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open.<br/>
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It was like trying to tread in maple syrup, every flail and kick seemed to be three times more exhausting than what was normal, his head barely remaining above the molten rock. As the former human sucked in a sharp breath, he realized—he wasn’t in pain anymore.<br/>
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At least, not physically. As he struggled to the shoreline, rocky and sharp, scorched flesh was melted away to reveal blood and bone, his head was engulfed in flames, but all he could hear was the rapid pulse of his heart in his ears and the bubbling of magma. Finally, he reached out to the shore to drag himself onto land—apart of him simply wanted to sink to the bottom of the pit, but primal fear and self-preservation kept him moving. When he caught sight of his hand, stripped down to bleach white bone—he froze.<br/>
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When it finally enclosed around one of the sharp rocks, he watched his body rebuild itself in silent amazement. New muscle and sinew blossomed over bone, fresh blood pooled, separated and hardened into veiny canals, a new skin spread down his arm like a rapid fungus, ochre in color. By time he had managed to drag himself completely out of the pit, his entire body had been formed—this new figure came with sharp claws,  pearly white fangs and long hair that ran in burnt orange rivulets down his back.<br/>
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<i>“Agmon”.</i><br/>
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Ashen gray orbs turned to look at the King of Hell, running upwards from his hooves to his face. He wondered if he took that form all the time, if the devil himself was confined to a single body.<br/>
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<i>“That will be your name”</i>. Agmon. That seemed to suit him. <i>“You need to rest and settle into this form. Come.”</i> The king offered his hand—five fingered, red and plain.<br/>
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Agmon had no reason to deny him, subconsciously eager to engage in anything that would distract him from the pain in his heart and mind.<br/>
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Unlike the king, his legs were human in nature. He had two of them, with five toes. The nails were blackened—not with rot, but with pigment. As they walked, Agmon became aware of how <i>exhausted</i> he felt. His entire body was sore, as if he had just ran a marathon. His eyes felt full and heavy, as if he had spent days crying, but no longer could remember what had upset him so horribly. With one hand in the King’s—an odd display of kindness that looked out of place on the horned and red demon, Agmon used his free hand to assess himself.<br/>
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His face felt smooth to the touch, but as he neared his forehead, he felt two bony protrusions. Gray eyes widened in silent shock, flitting over briefly to glance at the King’s own horns. They didn’t feel as large as the king’s, more like small mountains or growths. He absent-mindedly realized that he was also naked, but in the grand scheme of things that was insignificant.<br/>
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He blinked and the demon before him suddenly looked more like a man. Brown skin, red eyes, full lips and a broad chest. Handsome, he observed, but Agmon felt nothing. Gray eyes lazily looked to his left and right. They were no longer near the flaming pit, but now in an opulently decorated room. Gold accents, dark colored furniture, animal skin rugs and silk sheets. Agmon half expected to see a bathtub full of milk and honey. Something in him was pleased. <br/>
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He enjoyed opulence.<br/>
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The demon king—now man, led him to the large bed that was layered with soft blankets. <i>“Rest. You will feel more like yourself in time.” </i>Agmon found himself sinking into the sheets, his eyes falling shut against his will.<br/>
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<b>Sansao Belail Alvarez / King of Hell</b><br/>
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Time moved differently in Hell. Sansao saw the way it effected the dammned. It was only through his natural connection with the hellscape and the moons that rotated above, that he kept himself oriented. Agmon came to him first, tortured for 70 years in the Hall of Damnation. Your punishment, naturally, was a combination of all your worst fears and memories, confined to a single event that would replay for an eternity, until every drop of black energy was squeeze from your soul. <br/>
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Usually by the end of a 70 year period, the human souls were nearly tapped. Especially criminals, they tended to be cowards, the lot of them. Agmon was different. When he checked in on the status of his soul, it hadn't even been drained half way. That was the only sign the demon king needed, to convert him. Powerful souls like that had more value to him as servants, rather than as fuel. Agmon, in his haze, watched him like a lost child. Wide eyed and slow moving. He carried him, dropped him, and watched him emerge from the pit in his rebirth. The old was burned away and replaced with the new. Even after his transformation, Agmon still had that lost look about him. <br/>
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He offered his hand silently. <br/>
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Pity wasn't an emotion that arrested him frequently, but in Agmon's case--exquisitely beautiful and eye catching (especially in comparison to his ghastly and mutilated armies), it was hard to resist. There was an unnatural lure about the newly formed demoned. Sansao suspected it was a product of his transformation. New abilities that accentuated the traits he had possessed in his human life. Agmon was new to him, but Judas jones was not. He knew the inner workings on the man's soul. That was how he crafted the perfect torture chamber for him, and...how he crafted the perfect bedroom.<br/>
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Over the top opulence appeared to be his favorite.<br/>
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Sanaso knew some might turn a nose up at his kindness. The king of hell, indulging a petty little demon who had yet to offer him anything. Despite this, the young King knew things his forebearers did not.<br/>
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Loyalty was purchased with kindness and disloyalty was punished with wrath. <br/>
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With his newest addition tucked away to rest, Sansao was free to resume his normal activities. <br/>
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Sansao's demonic appearance was dictated by the perceiver. Whatever they thought Satan looked like, was the form he took in their presence, unless he was in his true form--which looked more like a man than anything else.<br/>
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The wolf fell second. His arrival came anywhere between minutes and decades, after Agmon's. In defense of Sansao's poor time-keeping, he had never had any souls fall from Heaven before. Perhaps that wasn't saying much, his reign was only a few centuries old. The soul splashed into the pit, a ball a white and blue light that sent demon minions, creatures and spirits into hiding. Golums hissed and cowered and it took Sansao a few minutes to understand what he was witnessing.<br/>
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The Demon King could see all from his throne, but he neared the pit to have an upclose view of his newest arrival. Quickly, the soul began to form a head and various limbs. It crawled onto the shore, dripping magma. When it finally cooled, Sansao could see the formations of a beastial wolf. Large humanoid muscles, covered in dark fur with the haunches to match. <br/>
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<b>"Now what do we have here..." </b>Sansao watched the beast with interest.<br/>
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<b>"What did you do to piss off the big man upstairs? I'm dying to know." </b><br/>
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