The Devils of Dominia are infernal perpetrators of malicious mischief. They stand about three or four feet tall, have a face full of needlelike teeth, and often have ruddy or deep red skin. They usually have one or two back-sweeping horns and most of them have long, whiplike tails, but their morphology can vary from individual to individual. They are agile and can be passable fighters, but they do their best destructive work by sabotaging things of value and by inciting violence in others.
Dominian Devils often work in the employ of demons, stirring up chaos and woe. Dominian Devils aren't very dependable minions when it comes to servant tasks—they don't do well retrieving fragile objects or remembering to guard choke points. But devils are experts when it comes to generating and fueling bitter emotions. Demons are most interested in ways to demonstrate and expand their own power, seeking to tempt mortals to give up what's most precious to them. Dominian Devils, on the other hand, just want to repeatedly check who's at the top of the Things Are Going Okay in My Life Leaderboard and go wreck some self-respect. That works out well for their demon masters, because once a poor human's will has been broken and livelihood destroyed by devils, that human is much more desperate and apt to agree to a demonic deal with shudderingly harsh terms.
A devil's laugh is a brain-needle forged from pure spite. You might laugh when someone trips and falls—whatever. It's okay. It's kind of a human reflex. But a devil's sense of humor isn't satisfied until someone trips, falls, breaks an ankle, loses the ability to work, loses the farm, dies penniless, and dooms his or her starving heirs. Hilarious.
Dominian Devils don't have that little boundary of decorum that divides the harmless, schadenfreude-induced chuckle into your hand from the full-blown sadistic cackle at the dispensation of harm. The farther a prank goes, the more wrong it gets, and the more pain it causes, the harder a devil laughs. They will insult the memory of your dear, departed aunt—while waving at you with her own severed hands—just to bray at the look of anguish on your face. They have an uncanny knack for sniffing out exactly what you care for most just so they can break that thing and watch you cry. They can't be reasoned with; they are not creatures of reason. They can't be bargained with; they want nothing but your admission of defeat.