Wrath

In the history of mankind, anger and rage have often been associated with the element of fire. Red hot fire. No one on Earth would have guessed when the Prince would have done when he claimed a piece of the mortal world for himself.

He drowned the United Kingdom.

After the rapture had occurred and God abandoned those who needed him most, Hell's royalty emerged from the Inferno and claimed the world between as their own and divided the domain amongst one another.

In the case of the Prince of Wrath, he claimed England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales and all of the surrounding isles. A small plot of land compared to the others, but land did not matter much to him as he made due with what he had.

When Hell was all demon-kind had, the Prince lorded over the Fifth Circle of Hell, where those consumed with Anger drowned in the River Styx never-ending. The river was his home, his hearth and an extension of his essence. So when he was aloud his share of the Earth, he commanded the river to follow and soon enough the very ocean drowned the United Kingdom itself. The ocean turned green with bile, killing whatever fish that was not hunted down and killed by the many aquatic demons that swam above the Infernal abyss.

Now the former Kingdom was broken, nothing but small islands imprisoned in a stygian sea under the heel of the prince. To the humans, he was once known as Aamon, nothing but a lowly Marquis. Now free of the enslavement of his human name, the prince reclaimed the name that he was meant to wear.

He is... the Prince of Wrath.

The thick storm clouds circled above the castle, perpetually focused above the towers of what was once Castle Edinburgh. Green, toxic waters crashed against the cliffside, the only illumination being the towering flames on the castle torches and the lightning cursling through the clouds.

The Prince of Wrath was in his casual form; his upper-half covered in black fur, a twisted parody of a monkey or a wolf, with an armored serpent's tale instead of legs. He was resting against his lounge couch, which starred down a balcony where his court of fellow royal demons were socializing with one another. No one breed of demon looked the same. Some had one head, others had many. Some could be mistaken for human for one capacity or another, while others where unfit for proper description.

Few of the demons were calm and civil, while many of them where fighting one another in random bouts of , as one could expect within Wrath's domain. The Prince simply stared, nursing a cocktail of bitter tears, blood and milk harvested from his livestock.

Speaking of livestock, the Prince turned his head to the forsaken soul that stood next to him - a worn-out old man, naked except for the long white beard that dragged on the floor - and gave him a look with his big, black eyes. He nodded. The old man nodded back and stepped forth as two wrath demons standing guard knocked their halberds on the floor, garnering everybody's attention. Even the wrath-demons in their fatal brawl stopped their mindless on their lord's command.

The old soul walked up to the balcony.

"Let the marriage begin," was all the old soul had to say as the crowd all cried out in hooray.

One of the doors in the interior opened as the crows of demonic aristocrats parted, allowing servant demons - one looking like a humanoid lion with three eyes and a pair of goat horns, the other like a humanoid stag with a giant pair of burnt angel wings - bring in a long row of wooden stock-aids into the center of the room. Another group of demons walked in, three carrying halberds as they march next to two others gripping chains. The chains each held a chain gang of human women of varying ages, all of them completely naked. Some of them were crying their eyes out, others stoically kept to themselves, their eyes the only sing of fears for what the demons would do to them.