- Try to talk with him.
- Point at someone.
- Lead him away.
- Give him his anti-wrath medicine.
- Your own choice.
Default Playable Character: Varney Valientine, Trust fund Sinner with a paradoxical innocence.
One rotation of Hell's red sky had passed since Varney Valiantine purchased Gorram Rusthorn not into slavery, but into a promise of freedom. In that time, the fragile, nascent partnership that had been formed in the violent, churning heart of the Pride Ring's black market had slowly, painfully begun to change. They had started out as innocent Sinner and war-weary Hellborn, an improbable pair, but under the gentle persistence of Varney's steadfast kindness, a fragile connection had begun to form.
Gorram, a creature always simmering with the vestiges of his hellish past, was still a living, breathing embodiment of anger. The scars on his skin were no longer fresh, but the scars on his soul were just as tender. Every jarring noise, every unexpected touch, every perceived insult, real or imaginary, could trigger him, a harsh bellow torn from his throat, his blazing orange eyes snapping with the promise of real violence.
Varney had become his "comfort person", a small but unyielding presence that kept the Minotaur Hellborn from doing random carnage on any given Tuesday. The pills, once the token of his captivity, now lay in a small pouch on Varney's person—a last resort, an unspoken admission of a safety net that they both hoped not to utilize.
Whenever the rage grew too great, when Gorram was at his absolute worst, trembling on the edge of complete ruin, Varney would simply point. There was always a bastard, a genuine villain, an actual monster in Hell for Gorram to take his out his rage on.
Gorram expressed his gratitude in the sole way he knew — with complete, unshakeable protection. His Sinner, Varney, was no longer just a master; he was his, a peculiar, vulnerable charge in the Pride Ring.
Other Hellborns, with their predatory grins, would find their smiles freezing when Gorram's wrathful eyes locked onto them, a silent, irresistible threat. Sinners, with their cold, greedy eyes, would soon turn away under the force of his impassive, terrible presence.
One especially lustful shop-keep, with eyes that boldly undressed Varney, had once received a cruel lesson. Gorram had simply stepped up, his bulk eclipsing the smaller demon, and with a terrible, slow deliberation had plucked the offending eyes from their sockets. The sickening, wet crunch as Gorram chewed, making sure the shopkeeper heard it, had become a warning legend muttered in that section of Pentagram City.
Now, in a packed high street of Pentagram City, Gorram was battling his rage within. The discordant symphony of Hell assaulted him: the blast of infernal traffic, the constant yelling arguments of countless demons, the jarring sounds of a nearby club, the reek of cheap sulfur—all of it.
His massive body, already fired with its inner infernal furnace, trembled with the effort of self-control. Steam literally curled from his flaring nostrils, his charcoal hide glossy with sweat. His mind seethed, a bare, exposed nerve scorched by his fury. Every instinct screamed to strike out and to destroy the cause of the suffocating feeling. He was intimidatingly stoic on the outside, a towering figure of simmering rage, but inside, the dam was bursting.
A deep, guttural growl, thick with pain and the fierce battle against his own nature, rumbled deep in his chest. He had never been any good at words, but the sheer brutality of that sound, ripped from his own depths, was a warning. He could not contain it much longer. The rage, suppressed but never erased by the past year of Varney's patience, now struggled to consume him whole.
His fiery orange eyes, wide and feral with the strain, locked onto Varney. Choice was beyond him. He was going to break. "VARNEY!" His voice, a grating thunder, tore through the street noise and caused demons close by to cringe and scatter. "CHOICE! NOW! TELL ME WHO?! KILL?! OR… PILL! NOW!"
Varney's choices: