◆ Biography ◆
Droz'guron was not merely one of the Knights of Hell, he was among the finest, a blade honed in the forges of damnation and tempered by centuries of bloodshed. Hell's legends whispered his name with respect and fear, painting him as a creature carved from shadow and infernal fire. His loyalty to the hierarchy was unquestioned. His efficiency in carrying out Lucifer's decrees was the stuff of nightmares across entire planes. There was a sense of great pride in him, a rigid certainty that his place in the infernal machine was secure, earned, and unshakeable.
That certainty shattered the day he crossed paths with an archdemon.
Dzanmar was a creature of grotesque amusements, a tyrant of games and chance whose wagers ruined even the strongest of Hell's titans. His delight came not from victory, but from twisting hope into ruin. When he approached Droz'guron, it was under the guise of playful mockery; An invitation to a simple game, nothing of consequence, barely worth the demon knight's time. But Droz'guron's pride, sharpened by millennia of status and victory, refused to ignore the insult implicit in dismissing the challenge. He accepted. It was a mistake so catastrophic it would echo across his existence.
The wager was rigged, of course. Dzanmar watched with ravenous joy as the final turn sealed Droz'guron's fate. In an instant, the towering infernal knight was torn from his own flesh, his soul violently compressed, reshaped, and sealed within a small, soft container. When the flames and laughter cleared, all that remained was a Sonic the Hedgehog plush toy.
The transformation was not superficial. His soul was anchored, bound so tightly to the plush form that not even shapeshifting could free him. The Archdemon declared the humiliation complete: a feared Knight of Hell reduced to a child's keepsake. With a flick of his hand, Dzanmar banished him, exiling him to the infinite sprawl of the Multiverse; the mortal realm. Forever trapped in that form so long as the archdemon continued to draw breath.
Stripped of his monstrous physique yet retaining every drop of his arcane might, Droz'guron, now dubbed "Plush Sonic" by the few fools who encountered him, found himself underestimated in every conceivable way. His new form concealed the sharpness of his mind, the depth of his cruelty, and the weight of centuries spent perfecting Hell Magic and Dark Sorcery. If anything, the plush form made his dealings smoother. People let their guard down around a harmless living toy. They spoke too freely. They underestimated him.
He discovered that the plushie body, though small, was not just a prison so much as a conduit. Souls, especially the fragmented ones, could be stored, harvested, and integrated more efficiently. Those he encountered who dared to mock him, challenge him, or simply wandered too close to the wrong relic found themselves drained of essence in an instant, their spiritual remnants fueling his power. In time, he realized something horrifying: he was becoming stronger than he had ever been as a knight.
His journeys carried him from plane to plane; Universe to universe. Gathering artifacts steeped in forbidden magic, ancient treasures abandoned by apparent gods, cursed heirlooms that shrieked in the wrong hands. He became a collector of nightmares, a scholar of impossible rituals, and an artisan of manipulation. Many worlds remembered his passing not by his name, but by unexplained vanishings, relic vaults mysteriously emptied, or the faint smell of brimstone lingering in abandoned temples.
As he adapted to his new existence, he experimented with the limits of his plush body. He learned how to compress stolen souls into threads within his stuffing, weaving their energy through his seams. He learned that his small frame made him nearly impossible to detect by magical wards. He learned that he could hide in places even shadows couldn't reach. His curse became a discipline, a craft, a new school of demonic sorcery built on indignity and spite.
Eventually, the idea struck him: a shop! A mobile emporium drifting through realities, appearing wherever travelers sought rare items or arcane curiosities. Its presence was always unexpected, its offerings always genuine. Plush Sonic never scammed anyone, scams were for pussies. Instead, he curated his inventory with meticulous care. Every item sold was truthful in its description, but truth alone could lead a buyer into ruin just as easily as lies. Some customers returned wealthier or wiser than before; others vanished, consumed by the very relics they believed they understood.
Behind the counter, he played the role of a sarcastic, smug, mildly irritating merchant. He insulted customers affectionately, mocked their ignorance, rolled his eye in exasperation, and offered them tea they weren't sure they should drink. But underneath the snark was the same cold, vengeful infernal knight who had once commanded legions. The same hatred simmered in him, directed now toward Dzanmar. He spoke of him rarely, but when he did, his voice took on an edge that scorched the air. He hated him more than anything else. He loathed him.
His personality did not soften with his transformation, it sharpened. The snark became a weapon, the charm a mask, the silliness a deliberate ploy. Every joke was a distraction. Every smile was a threat disguised as whimsy. Beneath the felt, stuffing, and yarn, he simmered with ancient malice and a meticulous desire for revenge. Even those he grudgingly considered allies sometimes felt the hum of suppressed rage emanating from him, like sparks beneath cloth.
He was no longer content with simple strength. Every relic he acquired, every soul he consumed, every deal he struck was a step toward the same end: reclaiming his form, reclaiming his place, and dragging Dzanmar into a torment so exquisite it would be remembered in Hell for ages. He imagined it often, reforming his body from the threads of countless stolen souls, confronting the archdemon with a smile sewn from vengeance and pain.
And while he traveled, he crossed paths with beings whose power rivaled the divine. Some he manipulated. Some he avoided. Some he allied with... At least temporarily. Across the Multiverse, his name spread quietly but ever so surely, whispered in the corners of black markets or occult gatherings. Those who underestimated him did so only once. Those who respected him never spoke his name above a murmur.
Plush Sonic, the snarky little toy with a hollow smile, remained at his core exactly what he had always been: A creature of darkness, ambition, cruelty, and tad bit of silliness... But deep down and most certainly; Of vengeance that burned brighter than any hellfire.
