Standing at just over six feet in height and tipping the scales at around 190 lbs, this male figure cuts the image of a sly, mischievous devil. His tanned skin stretches taut over a clearly athletic build, a testament to the care he takes with himself. His frame is lean but powerfully defined, suggesting agility and strength in equal measure. The air hung thick with an alluring scent about him, a captivating fragrance that drew you in even as it hinted at danger with that whisper of brimstone about it.

His features are sharp and striking: a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a perpetual smirk that hints at hidden amusement. His dark, raven-black hair is often styled artfully disheveled, adding to his roguish charm. The most captivating elements, however, are his deep crimson eyes, which possess an unsettling yet alluring faint glow, as if embers burn perpetually within them. Just above his forehead, two curved horns emerge, smooth and dark, complementing the dangerous allure of his gaze. And, like most fiends, a long, muscular tail sprouts from his lower back, ending in that iconic, spaded tip, often twitching subtly to punctuate his moods.

His body is adorned with multiple piercings, adding to his rebellious aesthetic. More than just his physical appearance, it's his scoundrel demeanor that truly defines him. He exudes an infectious energy, always ready with a joke, the first to start a party, and perpetually enjoying the moment with an almost hedonistic abandon. He carries himself with a confident swagger, an easy laugh, and a glint in his crimson gaze that suggests he's always plotting his next delightful transgression.

BACKSTORY

The Beginning:

Shamus wasn't always a devil, not in the traditional sense of being born from a tortured soul, he was once a celestial, and angel that served in the Upper Planes. He embodied the ethereal beauty and serene power characteristic of his kind, yet with a distinct presence that sets him apart. His form was one of radiant light, but not so dazzling as to blind; rather, it possessed a more gentle glow about it, almost comforting. His hair was thick and flowing, cascades in waves of silvery white locks. Matching that was his ivory skin pure in look and smooth to the touch, to accentuate his gentle features. From his back sprang two magnificent wings, immense and majestic. Unlike the stark white often attributed to angels, Shamus's wings were a breathtaking canvas of iridescent feathers. Each feather seemed to hold the colors of a sunrise and sunset simultaneously, shifting from soft rose and peach to vibrant violet and deep indigo, creating a shimmering, almost liquid appearance as they subtly unfurl or fold. He took pride in his duty as much as he did his appearance, always looking to better himself to help the cause that much further, always striving to perfect himself, which in turn only led to his fall.

The Fall

It began with a whisper, a seductive logic woven into his mind that he, in his youthful enthusiasm, believed he could perfect. He saw flaws in the divine plan, inefficiencies in the cosmic balance, and a growing impatience festered within his pure heart. He had to fix it.

Initially, his acts were small transgressions: diverting a soul he deemed worthy from a preordained path or offering unsanctioned guidance to mortals, thinking he could perfect the world to something better then the grand design. Each deviation, however minor, left a faint, almost imperceptible stain on his luminous form, a subtle dimming of his celestial light. His once brilliant wings, feathered with the purest white, began to show hints of grey at their tips, like ash on freshly fallen snow.

The true turning point came with the allure of power. He sought not to dominate, but to control outcomes, convinced that he could prevent suffering by taking matters into his own hands. This hunger for effectiveness, for perfection, predictable order, led him to darker techniques. He reasoned that a swift, decisive act, even if it caused temporary pain, was the  preferable outcome to prolonged agony. This twisted logic was the venom that truly began to corrupt his essence.

When he finally fell, it was not a crash but a deliberate step down into the infernal planes. The first sign were a subtle hardening beneath the skin of his forehead, a pressure that was both foreign and unnervingly familiar. then came the agonizing pain as those black curved horns pushed through that once pristine skin, now tanned, rough and warm to the touch with a lingering scent of brimstone. His wings now a testament to a grace long lost, once glorious and spanning, now a haunting echo of what they had been. They were raven-like, not in the sleek, obsidian sheen of a living bird, but in the dull, faded black of old. Instead of strong, interlocking barbs, the feathers were thin and brittle, constantly wilting and withering away only to be replaced by another, a constant and agonizing reminder of his fall from grace. He hides his wings now, ashamed of what they have become, what he let them become, rarely if ever showing them to anyone, using powerful infernal magic to replace them with that traditional spaded fiendish tail.

He accepted his fate, though a deep sense of betrayal gnawed at him. He believed his fall wasn't his fault, but rather the arrogance of his superiors who failed to see his actions as merely an attempt to perfect their grand design. In the fiery crucible of his damnation, his true name was born. Like most Baatezu, he guarded this name fiercely, a vulnerability he had no intention of revealing.

He swiftly climbed the ranks within the fiendish hierarchy, eventually finding himself stationed on Phlegethos, the fourth layer of the Nine Hells. Here, he served under a Brachina, a Greater Baatezu of higher rank. She was a cruel and demanding commander, her pursuit of perfection even more intense than his own. Shamus became her instrument, a broker of deals, a soul collector, a demon slayer?whatever she required, he executed with flawless efficiency, driven by her twisted praise and seductive words. Each task he perfected further solidified his position in the ranks, fueled by her manipulative encouragement.

As cycles of time bled into one another, a chilling realization dawned upon him: it had been her all along. That echoing whisper which had subtly encouraged his actions, pushing him towards the precipice of his fall, had been hers. His own vain, prideful need for perfection had opened the door to his mind, allowing her to goad him to the edge. Yet, a part of him knew the blame wasn't solely hers; it was his own weakness that had allowed it. But the corrupted part of him resented her deeply for it.

He began to undermine her whenever he could, subtly exploiting her orders for his own gain, testing her resolve. He did just enough to maintain his station, all while plotting her demise?a demise, he mused, that she herself had orchestrated with his creation. He wasn't yet certain of his ultimate gain, but he wandered the Hells, completing tasks with the bare minimum effort, refusing to give her the satisfaction that had once driven her own ascent...


Lights:
I am pretty open minded here, I like to let the rp dictate how things will play out if it isn't a red I am willing to consider it, if I am not comfortable with it I'll let you know politely.

Reds: Scat, Vore, Watersports, Anything against server rules.