Sadness does not inhere in things; it does not reach us from the world and through mere contemplation of the world. It is a product of our own thought. We create it out of whole cloth.
Emile Durkheim
The Demons' heart is like a citadel made of blackened brimestones. In this citadel, lays streets that runs in chaos and very confusing muc like the paths within a maze. In each paths a Minatour stands guard. On the sides of these streets, stands shacks and towers and ruins and mansions. In them, dwells thieves and bandits and lyches and efreets and imps. In the heart of this citadel erect a tower made of black steel forged from the hearth of hell. In this tower a warlock rules.
Beneath the hellish grounds of the citadel, there are dungeons and torture chambers and fiery pits. Within them, paradise priest were confined, crusaders were crucified and angels were burned. From the break of dawn to the break of another dawn, the eery cries of these creatures of haven could be heard. They cry not for mercy nor freedom. They cry for vengence and oaths to regain supremacy over the creatures of the time where light is shy.
Sometimes (often too short of a time) the dungeon masters of the citadel were overpowered by the creatures of of haven. These creatures reign and supreme over their adversaries. When this occured, light shine in every inch of the citadel. The shacks and ruins and towers and mansions turned into gardens and arches and minarets and manors. The once dark dwellers of the citadel were no more - blinded and burned or killed of prisoned by the light that illuminate the citadel. The streets are straigthened and guided. The warlock is also gone. Defeated by a wondering wizard. The brimestones turn into bricks made from gold.
But times like this is often short.
No more calmness in the Demons' heart. Only chaos and confusion.
The Demon only can kneel to an unseen shrine. Head bowed. Palms clasping on the holder of a rusty broken sword. The Demon is too tired by the war that rages in his heart. The pain and agony is too tolling. The Demon can only cry and hope and hope and cry to his One True Master.
Cry in hope that He glance at him...
Hope that He hear his cries...
Cry in hope He embraces him...
Hope that He wipes his tears...
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