The consequence of the Devil's strivings were meager in comparison of the marvelous feat accomplished all those eons ago - when a flecked (and wretched) woman teetered off the edge and into the deranged, when the aftermath of his accomplishments had been a bloodied, decapitated wing at his hooves, quivering akin to a fresh fish caught and forced unto land.
Even with this knowledge in mind— it has been centuries since Crash had been contrived to safeguard himself from the like of the avian filth; and never by the hands of a soulless mutation of one at that. Entrapped within the sensation of bloodshed and strife once more, perspiration running in rivulets down his spine to his stomach and dribbling from his chest. Lungs heaving— adrenaline having turned his very veins aflame with pulsating voltage. During the procession of the onslaught upon his ship, he had neglected to notice a stranger gazing forth from the darkness and cover of foliage— a scent familiar and the noise of crunching leaves beneath the stranger's hooves startling him but a second before the brute spoke.

In a flurry of cleft hooves and flashing obsidian atop his dome - the Devil pirouettes to meet what he assumes to be yet another apparition of Hell come to Earth; only to meet sapphire and mahogany, snow and ice, charcoal and precious gems.
The scent is what saves the Prince of Blood before him.

For within a haze of bloodshed that blindfolds him with the lust for more - more savagery, barbarism to fuel his endless desires, the reminder of the Basin is strong within the contours of his mind, and with malevolence he tranquilizes the beast within the rolling pits of his soul with loathing in the case of his kin, too, belonging to the soulless wraith he has encountered before him here. So much as threaten me, dog, and I'll remind you of your place.
There is fire in his blood and fire in his eyes and he will burn him if he must.

And yet - as words spill forth in dark acclaim of his success the Devil allows the stranger of his homeland to pace, to appraise, to size up a potential recruit. Old memories.
A brand spills forth from the Prince's maw in reception of his coming - a contemptuous slide of the gaze downward to meet the wraith's ruined frame. Maybe he's not so bad afterall. Indeed - the Devil may find he even likes him. A ghost of a sneer drapes across his face in akin dislike of what he had slain - a abhorrent mutant in which was to be disposed of, and the Devil had done his job with glee. "Crash Course. Feel free to call me Crash— Déodat."

I am afraid I can’t offer you an explanation for that, but I can say evil things are brewing in Helovia… That thing very well could be a part of it.
Aphotic cackles are drawn forth from a splattered cardinal mug as morbid amusement is found in the filth beneath his hooves. He scuffs what's left of the mangled frame with spite - low tones slipping once more from easily moved lips. "It's an abomination. A diseased rodent from our lesser cousins. I've always suspected the rats of the ground and the rats of the skies to be foolish.. I didn't expect them to be quite so brainless when I returned." Macabre humor drips from his sardonic song. "Indeed. They seem to have fallen even farther down the food-chain in my absence."

Once more the Devil listens to the Demon: A offer of residence far too familiar and sweet upon his tongue to be refused. He wonders if the Lady of the Basin - Psyche the DarkEmpress shall await him with open arms once more into the ranks of those whom carry the same disdain of the lesser kinds.
"I came to Helovia in what seems to be eons ago. The Basin was my home then, as it shall be now." A flicker of uneasiness spreads as a illness across the map of his mind, queries troublesome as fly's on a warm summer's eve nibbling at his essence as if it is their right to do so. Arah. Darkness.
He should have never left.
If something had happened to her- "Tell me, my brother. Does a woman by the name of Arah dwell among you still? And what of our Empress- I assume she still stands in good health, no?"