Astaroth sat before the grand parchment that rested, splayed on the walls of his office.  Paper was notoriously difficult to find in hell, particularly the hotter reaches, so the demons made do with what they had.  And what they had was the flayed skin of sinners, along with blood to serve as sufficient.  More than anything else, habit enforced the need for demonic contracts to be writ in blood.  It endured the flames of hell in a way that was quite admirable.  Astaroth wrote upon the wall of skin with a pen fashioned from hair and blood, other resources that were in ready supply to his use.  The words he wrote were of the old script, envisioned before the fall and suffering only minor changes in the passing epochs.  Most of the younger members of the horde could not hope to read such a script, but Astaroth enjoyed the elegant flow and the reminder of grander times.  It helped that he knew that most chafed at the old memories, that seeing the script was likely to unsettle and upset his older peers.  If the sight was enough to set them even slightly off-balance, Astaroth gained an advantage.  And one thing that Astaroth had learned first upon arriving in hell was that he needed every advantage he could get.<br/><br/>The subject of his text was philosophical in nature.  Unlike many, Astaroth considered himself a scholar and a thinker, and he knew that by writing out the words, sorting the thoughts and ideas, he could gain some degree of understanding on the material.  This particular material was well-trod though, playing into the nature of the Fall.  Astaroth's previous writings on the subject made it clear that the creator knew of the Fall's coming, and that the creator could have stopped it earlier if so desired and that the creator could have easily destroyed every last one of them, rather than casting them into perdition.  Unfortunately, even his talents failed to derive any further truth about the role that the creator played.  The All Father's role proved richer grounds for study, but was also long since explored.  While most had argued that the All Father acted out of a position of certainty, everything that Astaroth had derived spoke to the opposite.  The All Father was uncertain when he betrayed his calling, but still acted out of his convictions.<br/><br/>For a moment, Astaroth considered writing of himself.  He was an unusual demon, for certain, one driven by subtler lusts than his companions.  Blood and sex and other bodily matters meant very little to him, except as a distraction from his infernal urges.  Oh, he suffered those urges as much as any demon, he could not escape his nature after all.  But for him, such things were passing fancies, designed to satiate need rather than fulfill desires.  Nor did Astaroth truly desire power.  He did not mind acquiring it, and being old and mighty (now at any rate) insured that he would have power.  But Astaroth did not abuse his station as some of his predecessors had, fools who had sought either to supplant their superiors or gorge themselves on pleasures until they grew fat, weak, and stupid.  No, if Astaroth lusted after anything, it was the truth.  It was a strange search, for one who was infinitely bound onto the truth, a being who could not escape, whose very flesh was forged from the raw substance of truth.<br/><br/>Perhaps it was this bond that pushed him so forward, perhaps if he was free from the demands of truth, he would not search for it further.  But Astaroth could change his nature no more than an incubus could become chaste.  The search did not just sustain his lusts, it gave him definition and form, and without those, he would be less than one of the damned souls that flitted aimlessly through the passages of hell.<br/><br/>As much as Astaroth longed to remain in the presence of his writing, he knew that today would be a busy day.  Word had reached him that new slaves were being brought into the arena, for the perusal of the Princes, for the first time since Astaroth had arrived at his station.  If Astaroth were to skip the festivities, it would reflect poorly on his commitment to the position of Marquis, which would ultimately be more trouble than it was worth.  And of course, there were the day to day duties to see to before Astaroth could give the rest of his day to the arena and his own examination of flesh.  The word included whispers that angelic beings were included in this particular lot of slaves, and Astaroth knew that he would be unable to leave until he had seen them in the field and observed their abilities.  The rest might prove entertaining, but the actions of lowly humans, even lowly humans transformed into demonkind, were of little interest to him.<br/><br/>So Astaroth slowly exited his office, with the hope of returning to his treatise before the next week properly began.  He had several theories regarding the transmutation of the fallen that were worthy of further exploration, but they could wait, for hell waited for him.  While the Princes were certainly imposing figures, capable of leading multitudinous armies, they often slacked when it came to the bureaucratic functions of leadership.  Most just assumed that hell ran itself, that the mechanisms of the place would continue to flow even if there was no one to give instruction and impose order upon the place.  Such was quite far from the truth, as Astaroth had seen, for beneath the veneer of clockwork efficiency lay a spiderweb of fractured egos and disgruntled middle men.  Astaroth had taken it upon himself to help organize matters, ensure that goods went where they needed to be and that those who had earned freedom were able to enjoy at least a portion of it.<br/><br/>Fortunately, Astaroth had built his infrastructure on his way up, securing useful and intelligent demons to help fill in the management roles of his burgeoning enterprise, which left him only command level decisions to tend to.  As Astaroth left his office, there was, thankfully enough, only three of his top level managers waiting for him.  Perhaps they too knew of the news of the Arena and were eager to give him the time off, but more likely Astaroth was simply fortunate enough that today only had a handful of issues that needed his direct approval.<br/><br/>Surveyors had found a vein of blood diamonds directly beneath a torture pit and requested permission to mine.  Astaroth approved and gave orders for the torture pit to be moved in a razor-thorn patch, with the razor-thorn farmers to be compensated for their lost out of the surveyor's profits.<br/><br/>Lady Gaap had assaulted the holdings of her neighbors and refused to surrender them, claiming rights by victory.  Astaroth gave orders for ten legions to exterminate Gaap's forces and bring the demoness to him for personal interrogation.<br/><br/>A mining company had discovered an oblivion shard during their excavation of hellstone, and lost ten slaves recovering it.  Astaroth arranged for compensation for the loss of the slaves and ordered the shard to be placed in secure hands and transported directly to his office, with a strict reminder than unlawful handling of the material would result in the loss of all station.<br/><br/>Astaroth went through his orders with a calm precision, hiding his emotional reactions to each piece of news, though certainly he could not help but feel the tug of passion at each of these particular items.  Even if the Arena's new season hadn't begun, Astaroth would have many things to keep the boredom at bay over the next couple weeks, as it was, the marquis might well have difficulty fitting it all into his schedule.<br/><br/>While Astaroth could have assumed his true form and taken flight to the arena, he considered such displays disgraceful.  Instead, after exiting from the spire that formed the center of his operations, Astaroth was greeted by the sight of a massive construct, resembling some twisted mixture of a giant insect and a human helicopter.  Astaroth had proposed the design, but the engineer who completed it had earned a grand commendation regardless.  Despite the ungainly look of the construct, it was capable of great grace in flight, while affording protection from most of the winged predators of hell's sky.  The flight, thankfully, was uneventful and soon Astaroth entered the coliseum.<br/><br/>The place was much as he remembered it, back in the days of his youth, though Astaroth had found little occasion to call on it in the intervening years.  There was something ostentatious about the whole proceedings, and since Astaroth could tell who the victor would be within a handful of maneuvers from both party, the thrall of the game lost most of its appeal.  The clamours coming from the crowd signalled to Astaroth that the festivities had already begun, and so the beleaguered Marquis picked up his pace, emerging into the stands to see what spectacle would come next.