Flung Forth

Red Hell

A far back as I can remember, I have lived in the cities of Hell.

There’s nothing wrong with me, really. I wasn’t damned, or condemned. I’ve not sold my soul, if I have one, and my dad hasn’t either, but you have to go where the work is, and my dad’s work has always been for the lords of Hell, so it makes sense to live here, I guess. The civilian area of the city’s not so bad, it’s too hot and a bit loud, but after twenty years or so I’m pretty much immune to the smell of sulphite. The schools, though, are mixed. Civilian kids alongside the children of the damned, a bunch of mindless brats who occasionally come into power before their time.
One of these, Larnestode, is the one who cursed me.
The problem with giving a demon with the mental age of an eleven year old the powers of dark magic is simply that they’re not capable of handling them sensibly. They lash out with feet, fists, tails and curses, and it’s all fine within their own family – attempting to curse a demon is very much like attempting to flood the Atlantic using a bucket and a faucet – but if they don’t learn the restraint that they need when dealing with humans, accidents can happen.
Accidents, obviously, happened. On the plus side, my family will never really have to work again. Turns out Larnestode senior is quite the high-muckity muck in the the department of people who deserve to spend eternity face down in manure. To be honest, that department has quite a lot of muckity-mucks to its name, but this one was special and, to keep it out of the papers, was happy to basically fund my entire existence several times over, including that of both my parents.
I’m still bright red, though, with a waxy shine like a ripe tomato. My skin is tougher than it was, but otherwise I look identical to how I’d look anyway, save the bright red skin, from the soles of my feet to the roots of my hair, red as fresh blood. The questions that would be asked if I ever tried to leave the place now prohibit me from ever being able to do so, so I am bound to hell until I can break the curse.
This is where you come in.
The Magicka council of Hell have tried to reverse the spell, but only by fulfilling the conditions will it ever be broken. Fortunatly, maybe, the conditions are traditional, set by the spell itself rather than the moronic demon who cast it (Which is grand, for otherwise I’d be suffering an 11 year old’s whims. “You can only be returned to normal if you…. EAT A THOUSAND TOADS! HAHA!”. Could be a lucky escape), but the conditions are clear, I must be honoured of my home city.
The city is a capital of hell, though. It has no honour. But hell is a place of exceptions, of the rules, of the specifics you find to work your way around them. So to satisfy the letter of the law, I must do the opposite. I will cheat at duels, and I will break my word.
And eventually, I will become as I need to:
Brigspike Thine. The Dis-honoured.

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