aratron has always existed. whether that is truth or not has yet to be tested but believe it when their name is spoken - it is with hushed whispers and frightened voices. as though his very name spoken into the earth would summon him. aratron lareign is a powerful demon. Named the "Prince of Sorrows" for his merciless acts against mankind and other creations, Aratron rules over lesser demons. No, he is not nearly as powerful as his several siblings but there are many who dread Aratron as he cannot be bargained with.

Wounded in his pride, Aratron has been summoned to the earthly planar before and was once captured, held captive in the bottom of a church where a zealous priest chained him with magic and circles and salt - making him bleed in a way that he had not known in many years, back when gods and demon warred against one another. And there he remained, unable to call for help to his patrons, lashing out any of the priest's men as he was kept for years - the ritual holding him passing from priest to priest - corrupting underneath the power of his presence. Beaten, he did little else but sleep and plan - trying not to tear at the worrying thought in his chest that he would die in this circle of salt underneath a holy church.

It was here that Aconite arrived, eyes like melting gold and a fire that he had thought died out. She was more blood at this point than anything, and Aratron watched from his circle as they tore the scales from her skin all in the name of their god. He expected her to die - as he expects all things to do. But she didn't. She breathed, she hung onto the delicate thread of life as they forced her to hate the very thing she was and Aratron could not help but watch and be fascinated by her determination, her pure spite. He had once sworn that the first person to enter his circle would die, that he would rip their throat out and bear it to the current priest. But when Aconite saw his bleeding face she hesitated only once before she crossed the circle of salt and bandaged the wound.

So the plan began as Aratron taught the young woman magic in secret, watching and critiquing as she shaped her first eldritch blast, the long pale blue talons of chill touch - they bonded over the same weight upon their shoulders - the necklace of iron around their throats that connected them. He was not a prince, and she was not a street urching - they were both slaves to a priest that saw them as abominations. And well, in Aratron's case, he was right.

Their liberation was bloody, and it was Aconite, hexblade surging in her hand that cut the chain that held him and they ruined that church and every single one like it. That should have been the end of it - the liberation was a means to an end, and the end had come but when push came to shove Aratron found his fascination with Aconite still steadfast. He continued to keep her under his wing, making her an official patron and ignoring the mockery of his siblings over his scars, over his "shadow" as he introduced Aconite to his gardens, to his sanctuaries and cut fresh lilies in her name. She merely had to ask for a plant in his garden and it would be growing the next day. Foolish, this was foolish behavior but any whim Aconite wished to indulge, Aratron merely waved his hand and it was hers. Perhaps it was because she asked for so little. She asked for books, a veranda in which she could sit under and a glass of wine. When she asked him to indulge him a particular request, he could hardly say no to that either and she kissed the weathered scars on his face.