Blood and brimstone stained the air,

  Bodies red and horned littered fields just as dead,

  And like hateful dogs did those that lived struggled.

  A sight too common in Hell, the place all mortals dread.

  One stood out among the crimson mass upon a hill,

  Hair shaped and colored like an snaked orange flame.

  His face somber and ever scowled,

  Ready to take any who tested him and make them lame.

  Two curved horns upon his battered brow, the right broken.

  Bagged cat eyes of amber that enveloped red-orange.

  Not for over a century has this devil slept,

  But his wrathful nature made him ever ready for carnage.

  As a pack, his foes circled him, baring their foul teeth,

  Snarling as jaguars and hissing as snakes.

  Each one desired the kill, but would not risk death,

  Until one saw a chance it had to take.

  A foolish move that ended with it's throat ripped out.

  The rest attacked, blood's fresh scent moving their feet.

  Then fell two, then three, then four, five, and so on.

  All who challenged the flame-haired devil fell in defeat.

  Black blood hid itself well in the devil's equally dark garments,

  Only showing in the trims of maroon and pink top,

  As well as his own skin and wild hair.

  Another devil approached, but when their eyes met, he stopped.

  "Legate Rustam!" He called out, his form as naked

  As all the others, but his skin was scarlet.

  Crimson marked those condemned or born of Wrathful Men.

  Scarlet marked those born solely of Morningstar's Set.

  The scarlet devil possessed the great horns of a ram

  And his hair was braided and color of summer grass.

  With a hammer of shadow in hand, he announced:

  "The city lays open! The enemy flee in mass!"

  To the city beyond the field of war did Rustam gaze.

  Black as their blood, the city stood with four layers of wall;

  It's spires grew with their number of residents like a fungus.

  But no matter their number, the Legate would see it fall.

  In a voice of coarse dirt Rustam ordered:

  "Rally the Gluthions and hurl them at the gates!

  Today is our victory and one long in it's coming!

  Dead shall be Berat, whom the Princeps hates!"

  Bloody and simple was the taking of the city,

  For the loss of numbers caused it to crumble.

  Like ice did chunks of structures melt on red earth

  And gluthion mass, red skin oranged, was first to rumble.

  As locust they swarmed through street and tower;

  Only skin and scent allowed one to tell friend from foe.

  Only those that bore clothing showed signs as leaders.

  The Legate was one and all others were rendered to gore.

  Layer by layer, step by step, body by body, Rustam ascended

  To the center of the city as well as it's highest point;

  A mound-palace of solid darkness and home of it's Archfiend,

  A title many demons of sufficient strength would self-appoint.

  Rustam and his horde approached the gates of the palace

  To be greeted with the sight of Berat and a throng of his kin.

  Comparing the two forces was as night and day;

  The kin with a stoic gaze and the horde with an hateful grin.

  By two feet did the archfiend stand taller than Rustam,

  Making him roughly seven plus nine-twelfth of one.

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  Dressed as Norse and Algonquin folk with the feet of a raven

  And a furless bear head save for dark man-hair silky done.

  Upon his forehead sprout a single horn, long and deadly.

  His old eyes were solid blanks of foul yellow.

  With a black sword in both hands, tip on the ground,

  Berat opened his jaws and with powerful voice bellowed:

  "Rustam Karazov. Your presence is an insult to demonkind,

  As is the actions of the upstart that you serve.

  To give a Humanborn such grand standing, such command..."

  Berat tightened his grip, "Things you do not deserve...

  A betrayal it is! A stab in the backs of all Trueborn.

  One of few things I dare to call ungodly; A hateful act."

  "Not my problem." Rustam replied, "If complaints is all,

  Then you should've accepted the Princeps' offer."

  "The Princeps..." Berat scoffed, "Her feitsh for Latins;

  A thing that knows no bounds. Dare I ask what's next?

  An imp as consul? A claim of Archbestial descent?

  To be Lucifer reborn? Anything to be Hell's Rex?

  Answer me now, you who many call Legate!"

  Rustam did answer, angered face appearing deadpan:

  "Are you going to keep whining like a child

  Or are you going to fight like a man?"

  "It is my intent." Berat answered, "But may this be known:

  Regardless of what she has planned, I will stand against it.

  I shall drive your mongrels back to your bitch-king

  And cast your heart down into Hell's deepest pit."

  "We'll see." With a raised fist, Rustam gave command,

  With Berat doing the same with his trueborn.

  The brawl was as savage as the one outside the walls.

  By eight wrathion hands was a trueborn's flesh torn,

  Three trueborn down a gluthion with spear and axe,

  One gluthion bit a trueborn's skull with a wet crunch,

  And at the center of it all was Rustam and Berat;

  Engaged in their own deadly match.

  By all accounts, Berat was superior to Rustam.

  Age, sword skill, and swift mass made him deadly.

  For the younger wrathion to face him alone,

  With no blade of his own, he must be crazy.

  Blows were traded in favor of the Archfiend;

  Limb cuts, face punches, chest kicks.

  Left eye swollened, teeth dislodged, mouth full of blood.

  Was this all the Legate had to offer? Was this the Princeps' best?

  Despite all wounds, Rustam remained standing

  And to this Berat spoke: "It demands praise.

  To last this long, to take me in stride; A shame you-"

  A sudden blow silenced Berat and put him in a daze.

  Pain and shock were one as he held his jaw.

  Upon it's removal, specks of blood were on his palm.

  To Rustam he set his gaze, stance revealing him as striker.

  A fluke surely. The price of wasted breath, not worth losing calm.

  Berat fixed his footing and resumed the duel.

  Another blow of true pain planted itself in his side

  As Rustam struck him hard with his elbow.

  A thought crossed Berat's mind; One he cannot abide.

  Casting it out, along with many others, Berat rushed,

  Teeth bared. He would tolerate this no longer!

  But two blows became three, then four, then five, and so on.

  The unthinkable was occurring: Victory in Rustam's favor.

  A loss of poise would take over much of Berat's mind,

  But not all. A clever kick knocked Rustam on his back.

  "Die, you wretch!" Berat shouted, lifting his sword

  And thrusted it down for his final attack.

  There was little time to recover and none to dodge.

  With both hands, Rustam grabbed the sword, making them bleed.

  "I will not be undone by an apelover's mutt!" Berat proclaimed

  As the blade slipped closer. Death was imminent; Or so it seemed.

  Gnarled teeth gritted and dug fingers tightened.

  The Legate slowly rose to his feet and cast the blade aside.

  Shock blinded Berat to a blow which knocked him down

  The tables had turned and The Lord had spoken. It was time for one to die.

  Berat attempted to pick himself up, but a black boot found his jaw.

  Crimson hands gripped the fiend's head and pulled with force.

  Berat resisted and received a hard fist to the spine.

  Resistance snuffed, Rustam regained grip and pulled as a carted horse.

  Flesh ripped, sinew snapped, the dying screams of Berat heard by all.

  High was the head, firmly held, for any close enough to see.

  The horde cheered in delight while the fiend's kin sorrowed.

  Many now scared ran and cried: "Our lord is dead! To the winds flee!"

  Deprived of the archfiend's sorcerous ego, the city fell;

  It melted into the earth and it's denizens, like rats, scatter.

  But many decided to join their conquerors as they returned

  To their master, singing foul songs with insidious laughter.

  Only the Legate remained silent.