IC: Removing the Tainted

[Satire]

Who would think a woman dressed as she was would be anything but a dancer, an expensive courtesan perhaps, the flimsiest of silks covering her frame, delicate hints of leather binding the silks and offering supposed coverage, yet still alluding to the treasures hidden beneath. The rustle of silk against pale smooth flesh with every stride as she moved, hips swaying in perpetual motion, her face masked behind red glistening leather. Satire had awoken after returning to the embrace of the beloved, Atra had gone, and silence pervaded. A portal shimmered before her and she had studied it closely, concerned because the last time a portal had appeared before her, it had taken her away, imprisoning Satire away from her hearts desire.

Yet the portal existed there, in the very heart of Atra'Lamia's strength, there in the very chamber where she had finally found the only one whom had ever reached beyond all to touch Satire in ways none could imagine. It didn't beckon, it simply sat there and unlike the blank faces of so many, this portal showed a view to the other side. Eden, the lands that Atra'Lamia had claimed by right of might as her own. Mind reaching forwards, the image showing true, Satire smirking left hand rising to stroke the long shining locks, then wrapping several strands around her finger and with brutal force wrenching them out of her scalp. Satire twisted them together, and laid them over the door latch, Atra would find them and they would lead her too Satire should this portal be false, then after carefully dressing, Satire stepped through.

Hips swaying as she sauntered down the narrow cobbled street, the heels of her boots clicking loudly, her feet the most covered part of her body, this was definately Eden, the stolen lands and there were still those whose loyalty fell short of what Satire's most loved deserved. Breathing slowly, deeply an artist in motion in the aspects thus highlighted as she turned and entered the guards quarters. Her sense of smell percieving the foul fishy taint of the arch bitches touch, and Satire smirking as the entered the guardhouse and allowed her most vapid expression to form on her face. Eyes wide, lower lip quivering slightly into a slight pout, continuing to breathe in and out her assets rising and falling.

The guards rising to their feet, smiles of lustful degradation forming as this was a prize they would happaily take for their own usage, their corruptions placing them above the fact that what came to mind was a crime, but Satire was using every tool she had and mortal men had little chance of fighting off her innocent sexuality. Innocent to the touch of men that is. What none of them realised was that she wasn't unarmed, she had a weapon hidden upon her body, in the one place that the revelation of the thin silks actually hid. Hands sliding over her chest as her wide eyed expression studied the burly, hairy guards, sliding lower, and lower until with a sudden flip of the wrist and a squeeze of strong abdominal muscle revealed...

From the one place no man had ever touched, a five tiny tubes bound carefully together into a single small tube was drawn and raised to Satires lips, a sudden breath against one of the smaller tubes a tiny dart flying out into the first mans neck and the first mans death assured, a quick turn of her head, another spitting breath, the second man recieving deaths deadly sting. One more breath and the third and final man would slap at his neck as his skin was pierced. All still standing, all now realising something was wrong, all raising swords then... their hearts stopping mid beat, agony creasing their features as suddenly their bodies no longer functioned and with one... two... three... heavy thuds the traitorous gurds fell dead to the floor.

Such a wonderful little poison could be extracted from foxglove and when mixed with other extracts of plants and small voracious insects its potencies increasing exponentially. A smirk creasing her lips and the once vapid, empty eyes became hard and cold and Satire spat on the corpses... "Betrayers, she is returning" A flick of her head, lustrous hair flowing in liquid motion over her shoulders, and Satire left to seek out more traitors to the name of the 'True Queen'...

[Uriel]

The ancient bird sat high upon the skeletal frame of the oak. Struck by lightening, decaying, yet the tallest tree around. The night was chill yet the scarred face of this bird missed nothing from the gleam of its single eye. Beak snapping down to harshly clack against the timber as familiar scents wafted in the softness of zephyr and it knew, knew it was time to summon he whom was as them. Wings extending, beak striking against the dead branch once more, the ancient bird flew off. His flight sustained by something more then muscle and sinew for to look at the bird he was scarred adn tattered, his age far beyond what it should be. Wings moving, yet only for show, he had no need to flap, but he did out of respect for his kindred, his awareness outreaching as he quested for his goal. As he flew, in the night sky, the sound of rustling feathers beating through the air, the calls of his kind, at first a few but from all directions more and more of the dark birds appearing. The fact the ancient one was abroad enough of a beacon for his kind to take wing, and since they had links to she whom ruled this land they were there in plenty. A dark and gloomy range of mountains, haunted by the standards of men looming before the ancient bird, a 'caw' breaking his silence as he flew to the highest peak, overlooking these lands and landing beside a dark boulder of weathered granite.

Single beady eye looking out at the massing flocks, swirling about the crown of this peak, the beating of wings and cawing now a resounding mass breaking the nights mystery. The ancient bird hopping in his stiff legged gate to stand before the boulder then his beak tapping once, twice thrice upon the rock. Hopping back he stood, head cocking to the side then picking up a pebble twixt the savage cruelty of his beak and tossing it against the boulder. In the distance a rumbling tremor building, the earth itself shaking in its depths as far below massive forces consolidated and unbound their purpose. The tremors increasing, moving in concentric waves to focus their entire purpose towards the peak where the birds flew. Pulsations building the ground beneath the ancient bird feet trembling yet the bird standing as if the earth moved not, it had no effect on him whatsoever. As stable as a rock he stood glaring at tha boulder from his single blood hued eye, waiting, the birds above now silent, the caws having ceased en masse, the silent beating of their wings an evil dark and terrifying sound. Tremors now earthquake, its motion weird but would be felt throughout the land as they merged together to hit the mountain in a single coinciding burst. and then...

The granite boulder splintering and cracking in ominous subterranean tones. Flecks of stone flying off as the boulder reshaped, Chiselling itself into a form, a large kneeling form, male in attribute, wings extending from his back, visage stern in its seriousness. Sudden silence, all sound gone, a vacuum now in existent as primal forces built. The being motionless, the head suddenly moving, the creature standing, wings extending up and sound suddenly returning. Madness echoing, the raucous cawing a celebration of his return. The ancient Raven in fashion giving the equivalent of a bow, then hopping excitedly from leg to leg. Lips parting as ancient eyes surveyed the lands before him, he knew deep within that she was returning to this land, to reclaim what was hers. The ravens attuned to her since Uriel had given their allegiance to her coming to bring him forth from where he had sat in readiness for her return, guardian over this and her other lands. It was time to fly, time to wage war in the name of her glory, in the name of her might in the name of Atra'Lamia. Wings outspread he leapt upwards and wings began to beat, the old Raven joining him on the wing, thoughts of what went before merging as he was updated with everything that every raven had seen. Voice chilling and deep as he spoke for the first time in many ages "Atra'Lamia, I come", Uriel flying towards her lands to again give allegiance to the one he held in such esteem, the one he had turned away from the most holy of all to walk beside...

[Feral Hungers]

Was change ever a good thing, or was it the merest folly of inscrutable meanderings, thinking to justify themselves in the pandering needs of creatures of insignificance. All powerful creators, giving birth to unworthy spawn only to then chain themselves in abject impoverishment to the creatures they should instead rule and torment as they saw fit. Creation, the greatest joke to all things, for by creating, the potence of the creator becoming locked in unending cycle instead of freedoms exposition clawing its ways to savage desires. Before the dreams of creator had solidified, in the ancient and unalterable piquancy of empty obscurity, the only existence had been passions infamy. Devour or be devoured, the only existence. Creators giving birth to worlds uncounted, then locking away this newfound source of delicacy from the hungering maws of those joyous in their defilement.

Had not the creators considered that in the consecration of matters form, they concentrated areas of themselves so that should creatures of Adaghar's nature roam free, they would discover a feast of infinite proportion awaiting their tormented desires. How feeble the flesh enclosing the spark of soul making it so much easier for his kind to feast in gluttonous delight, how much more vocal their fears and pain, trembling as their essence was ripped from flesh, shrieking as their children died before their eyes. Such entertainment, such depraved enjoyment on the offerance.

Since awakening to the fateful call of feminine potence Adaghar had wandered, studying the worlds, feeding and invoking fear. Discovering to his mirth that his kind had all but been forgotten and the few whom remained aware now so powerless as to hold no claim. His choice of hiding within the earth itself a clever ploy, for according to their lore wasn't the earth anathema to his kind, did not matter itself devour the existence, weakening their perspective until they fell prey to matters enticement. How little men knew and every iota of knowledge gleaned only what Adaghar and those of similar ilk had carefully fed to the masses. A campaign of misplayed facts, twisted antagonisms and misaligned concepts created to mislead the poor sad fools who believed they had the right of might only to learn they had nothing in their empty dreams. By accident or design many of his type had fallen to the creators warriors, but never by man’s own knowledge.

A different hunger inspired within, blood and souls anguish having for now sated, Adaghar now allowing his essence to fall deep within the earths constituency in order to seek out the one that had so tempted his interests, the one that stood out above the mere fodder adorning the creators whims. A woman making males and gods alike puny insects to be crushed, mutilated and used for her own obscure ends. Allowing the vortex of emptiness between the molecular dispensation of matter to guide him, letting the world itself push him onwards towards his goal, for a perception within told him that even though she had told him to come to her, it would not be possible by his own understanding. Such a creature of the great nothing, living her desires in the fashion of those existing before the worlds were even dreamt of. He had no will to overpower or deny her right, only to walk beside her as she laid waste to the consequence of the claims of power by others.

Drawn to a taint, a blot scarring the very fabric of grounds reality, residual poisons, flesh eating and altering, death singing its curse upon the world, Adaghar’s first sign he was on the right path. What had been a slave market defiled, devoured, disassembled to nothing. "Ahhhh" the grinding of granite emerging from his chest in contemplative satisfaction. Ruinous embellishments so delectably acquired, treachery, butchery and murder done in such exquisite unpredictableness. She however was no longer there, but a trace, a smear of vindictiveness pointing, the scent now tasted he allowed himself to flow along the hidden pathways, a land, a realm bearing her stamp, her imprint upon its nature. A theft undone, her forces gathering, such insult offered to one worthy of so much, Adaghar’s essence tweaked into something resembling outrage, how dare such puny creatures impinge themselves upon something that was 'Hers' how dare they believe themselves worthy of flaunting their petty imaginings before a creature so far beyond their grovelling pinnacles. Rising upwards into her land, the earth spitting him forth with a certain gladness to be rid of his enticements, body rising from beneath grounds surface to solidify in the gloom of night.

A tension of muscle and from the palm of his right hand growing an sword, nothing fancy in looks, no runes or carvings decorating its surface, no supposed powers of magick wrapping it in heroic glory, just a sword, its only feature was its composition, the essence of nothing meaning that what it cut, it ate, what it ate fed Adaghar. Never did a drop of bloodstain its surface, for every drop was devoured into its hungered surface. Gobbets of flesh receiving the same treatment, and if one died beneath its blow, the same occurrence as the soul was sucked away into oblivions maw. Thrills running through his chosen form, not since the foolish mortal who in search of power opened the way had Adaghar felt the excitement of potential doom upon him. He hadn't felt this outside before, but he knew, he knew beyond doubt that 'She' had the ability to unravel him and found immense pleasure in the knowledge. A rabbit, oblivious to the danger hopping within his sphere, freezing in the chill surrounding him, his eye casting its way to watch, a smirk of genuine amusement forming as before his eyes it literally fell to pieces, withering to a maggot infested corpse. Men and the greater beings didn’t suffer his presence so, but the smaller creatures could not survive his nearness. Now he would move, now he would stride into the accursed night in search of any who defiled her name, for he hoped, by his cleansing he would again draw himself to her notice, that was Adaghar’s way, for action and only action counted. Words were nothing and if one had to be commanded to act, then the action was beneath notice. That was the way of nothing…

[Kain]

In all his long and abysmal life, Time, the ticking clock had always echoed in his ears from the very moment when the very first modified tool had been used. Kain could make that claim to fame, others may have sharpened rocks, but he was the first to bind the classic sharpened rock to a stick then use the extra force to crush a skull and force gobbets of brain from the ears of his victim. They oozed so beautifully and if he closed his eyes even after so many endless centuries he could still remember the expression on his brothers face and the loud crunchy popping noise as the impact force the gooey, sticky brains from the ears of Abel. A genuine minties moment in history...

But back to time... tick... tock... endlessly echoing in the vaults of midnights doom. Mortal lives so miniscule in comparison, gone forever the days when a mortal may live fifteen hundred years as in the days of Noah, death having a far more active role in mortal's endeavours, so many begging for more time as they found their plans fading into dust as age gripped their bodies and minds. Time was something Kain had aplenty, time to plot revenge, time to hate, to lust, to kill, all boring after a while until he had made the quantum leap and chosen to serve she that once he had misjudged. He had left the blood pit to seek whom had entered its sacred bounds, her temple, but an irresistible force had drawn him back, the creature pulsing in throbbing emulations, raw agonies of flaming torment dancing across its surface as he had entered the sacred cavern, then a shuddering roar and oblivion claiming his mind.

The blood pit, the heart of her temple, the living entity created in her name taking control of the continuum, reaching across the worlds in desire to seek out the beloved. The entity of her worship, creating pockets in time, questing outwards from its enclosure, desiring any hint of her presence, hungering to be near her existence, desiring only to offer itself as food to her being for that was the nature of the death gift created. The clamouring souls of those whose lives were shriven in torment from life’s warmth, the vitae from their collapsing veins, the anguish and pain of their souls terror combining in might to become the foundation of 'Her' worship. Mindless except for the adoration of the 'Goddess" no concept of good or evil, only hunger, the hunger to devour the shrieking deaths of those given in 'Her' name.

Her name, her scent a land far from Naethryn, the blood pit boiling in its desire to follow, Kain laying senseless in the potency of its tumultuous ascendancy, a subtle shift in the energies surrounding the Blood pit, the cavern in which it lay shimmering in bloods tainted hues. The surrounding hills bursting with sound as explosive relinquishment expanded outwards and the blood creature tore itself away form the old reality thrusting its potence upon the land, which was the 'Goddess's' domain. A subterranean rumble, building in intensity as from solid rock a cavern was forged, no physical entrance carved, Instead blood would erupt in orgasmic throes splashing against the obsidian walls, the steaming vitae scorching and marking the smooth walls in permanent portals. On the hillside what appeared a caves entrance, the only way in except for ‘Herself’ and Kain, yet in reality an illusion created so that those whom begged her worship or served her would come straight to the heart of this temple, but those whom sought to glorify their name by pitting themselves against her, would find themselves cast into the vast emptiness with no reference point to focus, no means of opening a way back for within the nothing any power raised was devoured by the emptiness until only an empty shell was left. And for those unfortunate enough to stumble across the entrance in their innocence, a pit awaited their visitation, lined with sharpened stakes to cast them unto deaths cold embrace, their pain, their blood all going to feed the entities hungers, their flesh however transported to the ladies vats to provide the meal from which she created her pets..

A dull throbbing behind his eyes the first semblance of awakening, Kain groaning and slowly rising, left hand grasping his temples. He knew something had happened, that the living pit of sacrificial endeavour had again surpassed the original creation. But what had happened. He stood slowly, the dizziness fading from his mind and looked around. The chamber altered, the portals unique in their construction, different and with impervious purpose, eyes of deep midnight glinted with the hues of ancient blood, studying them, studying the chamber for variances. A slow smirk developing as he realised that the creation had divined a passage to a land held in memory, for although he himself had not set foot in Eden in long aeons, he recognised the images portrayed in the pools shimmer to being the land won in combat by his Goddess. A smirk forming on his lips as he uttered the beloved name in worship “Ankhnesmerira” then turning on his heel moved out to see what perversions could be wrought in this land, what innocence could be stolen and if everyone here held true loyalty, for should he find otherwise, he would feed them to the pit with relish…

[Ruze]

[align=center]...Are You Afraid Of The Dark...[/align]

Where once mothers would frighten their children with tales of strange creatures wandering the night, not the parents themselves would huddle in their meagre hovels, praying that the dark would not swallow them. Rumour spread like wildfire that villages were being razed, the soldiers of the pretenders to Eden were being riven of life and limb and even the massive stone fortresses built to keep the true owner out were falling like termite riddled timber. Nothing was safe, priests of the haged God claiming they could offer salvation only to be found degraded, destroyed, mutilated in ways that not even the staunchest stomach could prevent themselves from shame.

Night would fall and the denizens of her army would arise to the surface, out of the tunnels in which they stalked their irreversable march during the daylight hours, for this was a campaign of terror, a campaign where the unseen ripped their way through hope, without prejudice or mercy. None were safe, from the mother suckling her babe to the petty lordlings, protected by men in steel and walls of stone. Ruze marching in the forefront, a general in her service, not one to await the results of battle, but in the thick of blood and gore, mandibles popping skulls as easily as fingers would crush a fruit fly, overlength arms with horrendous claws, grabbing the victims as they chrged, their paltry weapons bouncing off his thickened hide, then a snap of his head and gobbets of blood and brain flying to scatter.

None could describe this army of pain, none lived to tell the tale of attack, none would ever express how like a swarm they over-ran garrisons, villages, farmsteads and anything else that presumed to be in their way. A constant stream of flesh pouring towards her vats, a constant flow of sacriligeous pain rising to the heavens in defiance of anything good. Fear boiling over until more then one village had boiled over in violence against their so called lords for being unable to protect them. The land was rife with death and chaos, neighbour fought against neighbour and all the while the legions of her glorious manipulations rolled on, a juggernaut, unstoppable, uncaring. A baby ripped from its mothers arms, slowly being crushed twixt those horrors gracing the once human face of Ruze, slowly squeezing, the juices flowing down his gullet, the closest thing to pleasure gracing his form. There was only this and service, nothing else existed... Nothing else mattered except announcing that the queen returned and none, not god or creature, demon or mage had a hope in hell of stopping her in her rightful claim...

[The End of All Light.]

[align=justify:7b7594eedc]The banners snapped and crackled in the harsh artic winds which howled, gnashing around the blackened swarm of conjured fiends. Horrors not even the sickest of imaginations could ever create in frenzied bloody hand-painted portraits scribbled upon stone asylum walls- haunted figures crafted by the vilest and most twisted of minds ever to have stained the lands with their vicious insanities. Not even hell itself had creatures to the likes of these, hankering for the thick, crimson ichors of all that fell within their path. This was a force that would not bend itself to any mortal or material law, where evil even had ethics of attack on those who inspired its wrath, rules set down over the land of men long before man even walked the earth, where silent guardian sat crouched on the spires of conscience and guilt with golden tridents. A millennia where evil itself had been chained to the wrists of the gilded ones, Lucifer himself was even thought to be beautiful a moment before he had been cast down, rebelling against the only law the universe abided- chaos existed but only behind closed doors.

Armies that had marched these same beaten tracks usually left those pagans to their lives, the mundane existence of toiling over lands to grow their crops. Produce to sell just to feed the starving children tugging at dirtied shirts or sullied aprons for a crumb of stale bread. For the shepherds who brought in the sheep on the evening tide only to have those defenseless lambs slaughtered by the coming of wolves. This was no different, no prejudice granted by taxes, riches or land; it was barely a target simply because it was in her way-- she whom walked with the darkness moved naught for no mortal, immortal or God… she was something far beyond this characterization of metaphor. Gathering masses rising behind her, goliaths silhouetted against the falling hues of burnt vermillion and cardinal august: lustrous colors bleeding out sacred golden filigrees only to unlace them like a whore’s tattered gown then discover that she is not a natural blonde.

Tinting to tints more suitable for carnage for even the sky appeared as if it was rupturing by the might of those towering Goetic banners bearing the sigils of death and disease for with it came a new era of pestilence—one never seen by the eyes of man or Gods. A new dawn was rising, a dawn that would only be suffocated by its own bitter end for this was no longer about the fight, this was now all about destruction; the reversal of life and everything that stood between it, purgatory, heaven and hell (should one believe in such things, Atra no longer did). The barriers no longer held her at bay like they once had for they had grown frail by the sinister deeds of mankind and those left behind on the planar spheres… those whom declared faithfulness and loyalty to her only to later stamp their own marks of shame on her milky white flesh. Nor was this any longer about payment of dues long overdue, revenge or retribution—a soul had to possess emotion to carry with them such heavy crosses. Let them all play their own Jesus Christ, bringing to themselves salvation for it would be her hand holding the blade to their throats to welcome them.

Chiseled chin turning indistinctly to the East, no commands needed to be spoken to demand her legions to divide, a single thought implanted into the mainframe of her minions psyches, informing them to take the villages and cities in every quarter of the watchtowers. Since her new armies worked on the identical instinct of insect colonies, a single mind, thousands persistently communicating at the same time relentlessly without pause or moments thought. A formulated plan constant in their minds, to feed and gather food without rest or slumber… and it was much the same to destroy other colonies that stood in opposition; it was simple in strategy… insect against man—the same as it had always been, though of course with an odd difference. Evolution played its hand, with a little help from one who held absolutely no regard for nature’s physics for it had always been about the change from one predator to another, it was not her fault she had softened at the hands of time, Mother Earth, as infertile as she was.

Being totally aware of the events within the ‘Temple of Evil’ where Pandora spoke prematurely of Atra’s intentions for all she had done was speak of assuming; and assume wrong at that. Atra’Lamia had little interest of what insignificant power Darkbane believed it still infatuated itself with the memory of the strength it once had. Even that had dispersed yet in the delusion they all still clung to false hope, a feeble Goddess long forgotten to the world and bereft of her own equalities—she was nothing in the eyes of Atra, not even a speck of dirt beneath her fingernail. For the avowals of Kadasha and the others who swore allegiance to only her, they too would feel the bonds once held affectionately just melt and slip away… no longer would they feel her presence close… a deathly breath trickling over their dead cold flesh. Silence—was a bittersweet tool to be used and abused when Atra saw fit. Death can come slowly or swiftly, even for the dead in quiet crypts.

Beckon they may with words, trinkets and whispers of her name, whatever intentions they thought she had they would only be gravely disappointed at Atra’s lack of assiduousness in riposting the favor of acknowledgment. The quietening was always the most disturbing sound of stillness, how it eventually decreased into nothing but that unnerving ‘dead’ passivity. Calm before the storm. It was already apparent that she had Pandora quivering in her boots by the way she latched swiftly onto Malice like a sniveling leech before it was plucked off with a dagger’s edge and thrown to the ire of snapping brazier flames. Atra was yet to formulate a thought on how she perceived Malice; perchance it was pragmatic of him to hold onto old dreams of death, darkness and glory under the crest of Darkbane. After all it had always been a passion of his, regardless of what enervated harlot sat on the throne, limp with his fidelity to only the name of Darkbane and not the true essence of its blood.

In time they would all fade and flutter away like the stars. The presence of Atrox brought nothing but a stoic redundant snicker, always playing and weaving about in the shadows only to produce butterflies and pipe dreams. She knew he would not bother her, no less now he sought easier conquests like he had done so in the past. At least now he would pester some other indolent, dull creature and leave her to bigger and darker futures without his stale essence and infantile memory. Just as Pandora had wiped him from the name of Darkbane, Atra erased him from reminiscence. The acknowledgement of Pandora’s favor in regards to seducing his frail loyalty, removing him from Atra’s affections possibly would serve some kind of penance in the consideration to eviscerate Pandora’s existence or leave the wounded Goddess to bemoan the severed Achilles' heel that was the leftover scraps her clan. What better justice could be relished than forcing one to admit to their own ineffectual failures, a disappointed mother wounded like a beast by the hunter.

Attention snapping back to the forces marching before, scattering themselves to the quarters of the country marked by blazing fires and the eruption of screams. Already the slaughter had started, and there Atra was high upon a ridge enjoying the fruits already sampled. The black leather of her attire constricting, moaning like a lover in conquest at the turn of svelte thigh and slender waist; knees digging in deeper against the carved pelt of her mounts saddle while feeling the warmth of the beast’s inner fire permeating through the thick covering of armor and adornment. Gloved hands tightening around the studded leather of reigns, pulling them back only to compel the mounts head to rise as a copious tendril of anxious exhalation burst into the oncoming coolness of the descending gloaming. Lashing wreathes of onyx danced in whip-song round the frame of her pale visage, thriving over her diminutive shoulders like gorgon-vipers striking out to assail the elements in rebelliousness-- flaying over those feminine curves like thousands of tongue to caress the pelage of stygian tourniquet.

First glance, Atra wanted to appreciate the scenery unfurling before her- how those massive giants trampled everything in its wake, an abysmal tsunami of darkness, ascending only to crush in one colossal siege. The cordons were no protection, giving them nothing of salvation or hope for it all would be crushed at the hands of her soldiers. Even the sickly sweet echoes of bones snapping, veins ruptured exploded into the sounds of carnage. Crackling fire, screams of mercy brought little but music to her ears. It was only then that Atra decided to grace the pleading with her ravenesque wings, or the cries of children reaching out to their dead or dying mothers. Indiscriminately they would all perish, and with it the bodies would be strung from every tree, mountain crag and even along the blood stained roads leading into the other cities… all would know who these plains were ruled by, pure evil and unbiased chaos.

Into the hellish roar her steed plundered, hooves assaulting the earth in heavy thuds… raping the soil of all its nutrients as it extracted all life-force and energy at its gait. Black hocks pounding only to rise and leap over the falling barricades which surrounded the outside of the village, burning to silvery ash then whisked away by the teeth of grinning winds. Right hand unsheathing the decorated, elaborate sword from her side… artistically sweeping it from side to side as Atra carved her path through the multitudes of faltering men that dared stand against them in meager attempt to liberate themselves. At least they attempted to fight against them, losing or not, most just crumbled and fell. For those able to defend themselves against the skilled blade of this warbeasts and soldiers, they were captured. Armies had to be replenished and in doing this, Atra’s numbers would never falter. One soldier defeated, another ten stood in his place. If they were not good enough to fight, then any survivors would make for an adequate supply of food…

Cruel apertures blossomed at the splatters of vitae against them and her features, along with the banners of bloodied conquests, so too did her attire glimmer with that sheen of painted glory. Enjoyment of smashing babies against the rocky walls of the village, to stringing them high from the masts of steeples so they dangled and swung like perverted chimes in the wind so that it whistled through their busted mouths and through the beaten facial fractures… infants made the best affect on the hearts of heroes. O’how it made their hearts bleed in sorrow, it was those tears that Atra drank from stained burnt skulls while they spat curses before being fed to the quivering spawn of failed experiments. Black blobs of liquid that oozed along the ground, massive leeches whose mouths constantly demanding to be fed, many rows of jagged teeth grinding against the limbs of victims while they squirmed in terrifying agonies. Atra’s collection of insignificant pets never ended, particularly where the corrupted imagination was concerned.

Atra’s armies moved onwards, harvesting all in the path of its capacity—moving across the countryside like a sick abattoir of sinful fetishes. Ruze in its command now as she broke away from the mass of marching feet and pounding of bones against shields, they knew of the purpose first initialized at the attack and it had not changed nor differed in its reason. A single phrase implanted in his mind from the mind of ‘The Dark Goddess’, a simple command, one that not even an animal or insect could confuse itself with. ”Extinguish ALL life, turn the skies to black, rape the earth, and turn the mountains into dust. Do this in the name of The Dark Goddess. Do it in the name of Atra’Lamia!” With that, she snapped at the reigns of her mount- directing it towards the direction of the East. However, Atra would not meet with Pandora when she saw it fit, having Malice at her side to be brave with… no, should she wish to confront Atra’Lamia. She would have to do it alone and on Atra’s terms, when she saw it fit to bother with.

For now, she would ride towards Eden, where Satire and the others were congregating. First thing was first thing, Ruze and her armies would soon meet her there. Only then would Pandora learn of the real adversary she was yet to face, and the realization she did not possess the power to strike a hair on Atra’s head, let alone beat her into submission. Atra would never kneel at her feet again, if that was what Pandora hoped for. Then… Pandora would pay the price with her extinguished essence and the final fall of Darkbane, the blood turned to water and those who elected to still remain loyal to it and Pandora would perish beneath the rotten stone. The temple would be their crypt and their names would be forgotten;  all that was to remain was the mockery of what they decided to die for… a myth, a sham, a bitch with no substance only that of broken words and ancient promises. [/align:7b7594eedc]

[Uriel]

His feature near skeletal in the ecstasy felt that she returned to claim what was Her's by right of might. That which She had taken in battle while the slut had pretended to participate. He remembered the tainted whore who claimed allegiance then at first opportunity when other matters of nebulous immensity had taken attention offered naught but betrayal. Her and the whore that danced to her beck and call like a mongrel puppy offered food. To think that fat assed abomination had claimed to rule this land, had claimed to be queen. Now the true Queen, she who defied gods and demons alike. She who made no false claims, who hid behind none and fought in defiance of all. Now Atra'Lamia returned to take back what was hers and hers alone...

The skies surrounding this winged figure were black as midnight, thousands, nay millions of his winged brethren spiralled in waiting for command. Spying a lofty peak, a cragged outcrop jutting skywards, his features shifted into that fo a grinning skull and he landed. A gesture and the ravens scattered in all directions to swarm over the land, ripping apart any who stood in their way excepting those who bore the touch of Atra'Lamia. Uriel raising one heel, slamming the foot back to the ground, a shuddering deep beneath the earth as his foot impacted. Again he lifted his foot and slammed it down against his element, this time deep within the bowels of the mountain a subterranean grinding lasting several minutes. His call to arms echoing throughout the lands surrounding Eden, even throughout Eden itself causing those long forgotten to tremble in anticipation of again rising to serve.

One final time he lifted his foot and slammed it into the rock he stood upon, this time a massive face of the mountain sheared away to crumble in graven avalanche and wipe out villages thousands of feet below. At this third impact, the earth shuddered in exultation, waves of inertia sweeping through the molten world deep beneath, creating havoc above. The Queen and her hordes would know another of those who fought for the true monarch was raising his legions to fight in her name. In hidden places, beneath battle fields movement ensued as ancient warriors, decayed beyond human recognition began clawing their way to the surface. History had it that men who fell in battle were buried with their armour and weapons intact so as the massive legions of the fallen rose they were armed and ready. One by one graves burst open, in places mass graves where many men had fallen and buried as one. Swords bashing against shields in hard aggressive rhythm as maimed, rotten and desiccated corpses marched forth to join her legions.

His call had reached far, to the lands beyond which in the times of Tenaria he had visited and bound the dead to the name of Atra'Lamia, in those lands as well the dead arose, from the newest corpse to the most ancient, all stumbling in accursed reminder of their life’s motion. As they marched, they killed and their legions swelled with the fresh dead, a repugnant moaning carrying through their ranks as sword and shield resounded in defiance of any who came their way. One group as they neared the border was beset by a force of border guards. Rusting swords, mildew covered bone making short work of both men and mounts. Onwards they marched. From his vantage Uriel’s otherworldly eyes scanned and he was pleased with the results he saw, death marched to her command. Raven feathered wings spreading, he leapt upwards to be joined by the most ancient of ravens and flew off to where she marched, no back room general but a leader, a warrior.

The ancient raven descending to seemingly float just off to her left as Uriel himself after flying over her armies drew in his wings and landed... A bow of his head in greeting, no need to speak, no need to say a single word for Uriel knew beyond doubt that Atra'Lamia had felt the swelling of her forces, had felt the quaking of the earth announcing to the dead to rise and march... Eden was to be reclaimed, the taint of sluts and harlots burned away from history, the fat arsed whores stench to be cleansed in blood and flame... The true Queen, the one Goddess, returning to claim what was hers and hers alone...

[Satire]

From a small start great chaos could be inspired, and that was the goal of Satire. Acting the part of a whore was easy, for she had observed the dealings of men and to her mind all men were nothing but whores, purchased cheaply and used in ways far worse then they could dream. A glimpse of cleavage, a flash of smooth inner thigh and they would do anything... And the ones that thought they could dominate the situation died... Quickly, painfully, completely surprised that such a slight and delicate female knew the ways of agony so intimately.

Rumour proclaiming that her mistress’s legions marched in deadly inspiration, fear creeping insidiously into the hearts and minds. The priests of the township using the fear to elevate their status as frightened people grasped at faith. A smirk caressing the crimson lips, her eyes sparkling with the illusion of innocence she made her way to the temple of some pathetic deity sprouting love, honour and purity. Satire knew the hearts of men, and the high priest in his hidden heart was a lecher of the worse kind. The children given to the priesthood were subjected to his lustful ways n the name of initiation but none outside the temple suspected this seemingly kind old man. Satire would change that in the short time and in doing so, defeat all hope within this village.

Stumbling as beneath her feet the earth's bowels shuddered in a spasm of discontent, quickly regaining her balance and an inner knowing giving the thought that this was another of Atra’Lamia’s weapons in action she changed her mind and instead made her way to the town apocathery. Entering and smiling sweetly to the practitioner, leaning over his counter to expose the smooth subtlety of perfections curves, in his distraction him not noticing the dagger rising to impale the artery of his neck. The spray of blood, warm and satisfying and she took a moment to allow his ichor to flow across her lips. Then she entered the back of the building to prepare her next concoction.

First off some interesting fungi, the Fly Agaric Mushroom, dropped into a pot of boiling water, then some Oil of Hasheesh (a wonderful painkiller to this world, but in combination its effects were more suited to her purpose). Several drops of Essence of Belladonna to stimulate the flow of blood and a dash of mandrake as an aphrodisiac. Datura would complete the hard aspects of the blend, Satire added sugar and cinnamon, a vanilla bean and allowed the mix to simmer, the fumes not affecting her but had anyone entered they would have been in a state of severe intoxication and death from the fumes in a very short space of time. The mixture reducing and Satire grinning impishly, adding goats milk to complete the brew. Although the mixture was toxic, her measurements were exact and it's victim would have more then enough time to fulfil his role before he died.

Filling a bladder of goatskin, then covering her face with a decorated silken cloth, a veil of modesty she made her way to the temple. Entering she made her way to where the old priest sat surrounded by his pupils, and bowing offered up the brew saying in her most coquettish voice that she had been sent by the apocathery to deliver this gift to help the old man keep his voice in the long temple service. The old man accepting and drinking deeply, then passing it to the children. A matter of minutes only and the eyes of all glazed over, the children would sleep, but the old man would now be open to reveal his lustful fantasies. Satire revealing strength in her slender frame, dragging the children to a hidden alcove to die, all except one. The seventh son of the local magister, a beautiful boy who tonight would serve a dark and perverted purpose.

Leaving the priest to droll and babble to himself as the visions took hold, believing himself hearing the voice of God, she dragged the semi conscious boy to the alter where she stripped him and leant him forwards exposing his buttocks in invitation. Chuckling in grim humour she made her way back and removed the veil from her face, opening the straps holding her bodice together to reveal the erect nipples astride her feminine mounds. Entering where the priest sat, using her meagre magic to enhance her voice, she would appear as an angel in the eyes of his vision. Whispering lurid promises, she took his hand and led him to where the boy lay awaiting him upon the alter. Telling him all the while how his God favoured him and this was his reward. The priest, erect, his hallucination taking him to openly acknowledge his perversions, never thinking that Satire was anything but a representative of his God.

Her timing had been perfect, having waited till the old pervert had begun his thrusting exploration of the boy, she hid herself and waited. The combination of drugs would make sure that when the doors opened some quarter hour later, tradition being that the highest status enter first, and the highest being the Magister, the boys father, the first thing he would see was his son being buggered on the alter of the temple by the old perve. Shouts, abuse, the old priest not stopping till he had been run through with a sword and then his body torn apart. The boy dying in his parent arms, a sign, a sign that their God had deserted them and all the empty promises meant nothing. Fear washing over the congregation, distrust as the other children were discovered, dying or dead. Grief, anger, the temple being torn apart and sacred writing defiled. The alter torn down, the mob fearful, terrified, shamed.

She waited till the mob was done, till they had solemnly walked away to hide in their homes and wonder how they had so displeased their gods, then casually walked to the shattered alter, lifted her skirt and squatting, she began rubbing her most sensitive place against the cold stone. "Atra'Lamia... Atra'Lamia" she moaned as the waves of pleasure mingled with the pain of the congregation, grinding herself harder against the stone, the skin tearing and pleasure and pain merging as she moaned louder, the name repeated over and over then losing herself in her worship she drove her most sensitive against a sharp edge of the broken stone "ATRA'LAMIA" she cried as a small amount of blood mingled with fluid gushed from her loins... Silence except for the depth of breathing, a smirk caressing her lips, then standing slowly, the tiniest hint of tremor in her stance... The alters final defacement as she worshipped her Goddess, the true Queen of Eden... Fading into the darkness, Satire would continue her defilement until again in the presence of her lover, her Queen, her Goddess.

[Feral Hungers]

Swirling nebulas surrounding every motion as the most miniscule particles vanished into non-existence, fading away to a place where matter held no place, where life was replaced with hunger, where light was absorbed before it could be created. Every gap in the molecules surrounding him exploited, a world in itself in something so miniscule, yet to Adaghar this was home, nothingness, void, echoing silences. The words of she whom he sought, echoing through creation for the concept of obliteration would flow across time and space, through matter and emptiness in painful derision of any creator’s whims. This was what he existed for, obliteration, the repulsion of material imagination, for his kind had found amusement in creations pathetic grandeur, had not realisation occurred that to create, one needed to destroy, in every morsel of matter existed a core of degradation awaiting release for decay. In those spaces of vacuous indecision existed universes of vast potence for in the end... Everything decayed...

The sweet nectar of her words echoing in the vaults of mind, ”Extinguish ALL life, turn the skies to black, rape the earth, and turn the mountains into dust. Do this in the name of The Dark Goddess. Do it in the name of Atra’Lamia!”, such an exquisite formulae of paradise lost. To rip from existence a land created, to tear asunder the veils given by life, love and light, to replace them with death and inextinguishable despair a fitting display to those who enforced their whims on creation. A defilement worthy of excitements destitution, a claim that even the great Satan could not claim for all his attempts, instead performed by this seemingly delicate female, this perfect example of beauty hiding the deadliest of toxins, the deathly flower begging to be touched, yet in that touch fatalities grasp leaving nothing but an ending unknown, unexpected yet beyond any doubt... Final...

A smirk dancing across his features as he continued his journey, his right hand still grasping his sword as he flowed through the endless night of annulment. If he could have been seen, a casual stroll, a gentle meander, yet his speed was beyond comprehension matched only by the putrefaction of injured flesh, the race of gangrene amidst health. Adaghar eased himself back into the world of form, now standing on Eden’s soil, knowing that even though he was nowhere near her legion, his presence would be noted, he couldn’t imagine her being unaware of anything in her realm. Visible form revealed in the midst of a village, perfect for his statement of support to this regime of doom. Sword rising as he allowed his own personal space to expand. Fear ridden miasma flowing in the compounding of rumour, a delicious setting for his little display of offerance. His sword reaching to trace a chattering path along the stone wall of a guardhouse holding the only entrance to the walled village, the touch creating a ripple in the stones mortal presence, a moment, a rumble, then the sounds of flesh being crushed as the walls collapsed, moans and shrieks echoing in the chill of evening, better though, the collapse meaning their was no way out of this place.

Turning a corner a man running impaling himself fully on the sword, Adaghar smiling momentarily as the sword devoured flesh, blood, bone, clothing and soul, feeding its masters voracity. Barely a moment and the man no longer existed in any plane, gone from memory, gone from the mutacism of flesh. The town square, people running, yelling for all had heard the collapse of the guardhouse, himself moving against the flow of men and women, every touch creating more fear for his touch upon the flesh of these abysmal cattle leading to their dissassemblage. They would brush against him and continue running, a few steps later, their flesh would begin to fail them and in only a matter of meters death and dissolution would ensue leaving nothing. The dust rising creating a haze in the air, drawn towards him for final abrogation. A touch to a cottage, it would fall, men, animals, all dying in his path then he found the town square that he sought. Casually walking to the centre, he looked at his sword in amusement then in a single flowing motion plunged it downwards into the earth, letting his mind and lack of substance flow along the blade into the earth on which stood the village.

A moment passing and nothing appearing to be happening, shouts and screams filling the eve, then from the blade a greyness spreading outwards. The ground in which it was embedded lifeless, beyond lifeless for it died in that touch. They greyness growing at first a metre, then two, then filling the square, the buildings at the edge crumbling to dust as the greyness of nothing spread. Men standing on the taint discovering their boots falling to dust, then watching as the poison of obliteration ran up their legs, slowly, not speedily they saw their doom, then collapsed as their legs no longer supported their weight. Death followed soon after, for their bodies would fall to the earths suction of existence and in moments they were gone. The waves of potency flowing faster, everything within the village would be touched, tainted, destroyed, doomed. There was no escape from this plague of obliteration, man or beast. Stone or timber, if creation had imbued with form, his touch removed all bonds holding that form, and every hint of existence was drawn incessantly to satisfy his hungers invalidation. It would never be enough, but the drop in the ocean was something. Allowing his self to expand until within the village nothing remained except a lifeless grey, no sound, no motion, nothing except earth that would never again sustain life. To stand on this patch of ground would dissolve the flesh of men, it was now a voidic essence, a place of nothing, a hole into the place before creation from whence there was no return. He drew his sword from the earth, smirking as the last remains of retribution were drawn to vanish, then raising it ni salutation of the policy of death, he faded. Before he would face the lady, the Queen, he would spread his touch in her name... Which at least now he knew… “Atra’Lamia… I come… I serve” he whispered into the emptiness… it would echo for only one to hear.

[Kain]

Eden...

It had been so long since he had set foot in this tragic land, "Ahhhh home, I wonder if I remember where my dear dear brother lays in rest... I feel like pissing on his grave" he laughed aloud. Standing, hands on hips looking across what once had been paradise, soon to be a torn and ravaged wasteland, the penultimate "Up Yours" to the Creator, for as he had entered this land he knew in every fibre of his being this land belonged to Ankhnesmerira. Taking a deep breath, the smell of smoke and death tickling his nostrils, soothing his taste buds, such a delicacy of pain already floating upon the breeze. A grin forming on his face as he cast his eyes around looking for... "Yes how perfect" he exclaimed... Removing a leather thong from a pocket, he always carried one, he picked up a stick about an inch and a half thick then walked a few paces to pick up an oval rock. Squatting on his haunches and whistling he proceeded to tie the rock to the stick...

It just seemed appropriate, he had killed the first mortal to die with the exact same weapon, so why not return to Eden carrying the nemesis to mankind. Hefting his structure, giving a couple of swings to get the feel for it, grinning as if he had found an old friend... then lifting the weapon to scratch an itch in his balls he said “Eden, a rock and a stick, the smell of death... Oh Ankhnesmerira you know how to give a guy a hardon don’t you...  Oh yeah baby... For you my Goddess, I dedicate any kill... Their blood and soul are dedicated to you and only you..." Standing he casually began walking... A light in the distance beckoning, an isolated home, perfect for his entrance to the Goddesses domain. Walking in silence excepting the odd creak of tightly strained leather against flesh, Kain didn’t care for convention and still wore the dress of the future of man. Why go slum after having worn Armani. At least this way the clothing fit and showed his assets without cutting off circulation... and Kain was proud of his 'Assets'...

A farmhouse... thatched roof, old yet well maintained... "Peasants" his only utterance as he walked up to the door and knocked. He may be going to eradicate their existence, but... he could afford to be polite about it for now. The door opening a crack, a disarming smile offered as he bent his mind to raising dominance, the man smiling ni return and opening the door further, the rock and stick rising then falling with a nice squishy thock, the peasants brains squirting nicely from his ears, the wife the children, frozen in horror, dominance allowing them only the ability to scream. Thwock, splat, thwock, splat, thud. One peasant, one peasants wife, four kids all with their brains oozing on the floor, then moving to a small crib by the fire, lifting a baby out from its warmth and swinging it by the ankles so that its head spattered against the stone hearth... "Done done done..." a chuckle then a pelvic thrust.

A near orgasmic shudder washing over his body. The goddess spoke and of what she spoke... To wipe this place clean of all the filth, to annihilate and extinguish, this was simply to rich and Kain raised his arms and sang her name over and over... This wasn’t simply an 'Up Yours, Creator', this was a 'Bend over and take it like a man bitch'. He could almost hear the angels horror at this bitch slapping of what had been heaven on earth. Dropping the babies still twitching corpse, he walked to a low table and picked up a parrafin lamp, tossing it across the room to catch in flame. A chuckle then he walked out. The flames catching quickly, the house would burn completely, an echo catching his attention then a rumble and he dropped to his knees, lifting his head the black waves of ravens filling the night sky. "Uriel, so you have come to the party too my feathered friend. Was wondering if you would come and rattle those bones, or if perhaps you had crawled back to the man... Seems the lady still has your balls in a vice, just the way it should be fucker..." Only two more words as the earthquake hit in full force. "Oh Crap..." the earths cacophonous roar wiping out any other sound.

Second, minutes passing in the tumultuous spasms, shuddering, forces unleashed that would tear mountains apart. Kain not even trying to get to his feet until it began to subside. Aftershocks rolling through as slowly he arose... "very nice old raven, I wont ask for an encore..." Kain dusted himself off, and began his trek, he knew now where Atra'Lamia was. Long strides of determined nature Kain was coming home, and he would do so with the greatest force of destruction the universe had ever unleashed... The Goddess Ankhnesmerira...

[Ruze]

Armies marched... They strode left... right... left... to battle. The sang songs of glory, they drank themselves stupid, they wenched, and laughed with their comrades...

This army... didn't...

It crawled, it slithered, it flew, it hopped, it scuttled and most of all there was no camaraderie, no laughing or drinking, no gambling or fucking. Nothing except death, murder, rape, the decimation of anything in its path. They never slept, they never stopped for a meal, they tended to eat what they killed, what they touched. No plant left standing, no tree left with bark or leaves, no happy little bunny rabbit, slithering insect, animal of any kind, but better yet, no prisoners. They were eaten, usually while still alive, funny how they screamed and fought against having bodily parts bitten off. Fingers were good to get them started, toes worked well, noses and ears brought lovely screams, lips were tender and plucking out the eyeballs and eating while still warm were just wonderful. The tidbits were eaten by the higher ranks, then what was left was cast into the masses to be torn apart in a feeding frenzy that would make a shark sick to the stomach.

Her orders were clear, kill, destroy, leave the earth unfit for life, grind down the mountains, blacken the skies with smoke and ash, tear this land to the ground so that nothing remained. Anything they couldn’t eat, was put to the torch, anything they couldn’t burn, was attacked and smashed to dust. Half the time while one monster was biting chunks off a victim, another would be savaging them lustfully, why waste warm flesh, everything had a purpose. Armies usually were slowed down as they waited for supplies, waited for men to get over fatigue and horror, this army was held up by nothing. Many held no need for armour, Ruze himself having grown a powerful exoskeleton, near impossible to penetrate, his blood poisonous if spilled, his body no longer resembling the warrior that had been touched, The features of the wind scorpion blending with that of the true scorpion giving mandibles that could crush granite easily, multiple legs giving a scuttling gait, powerful forelegs able to tear an elephant in half without even straining. This was the mettle of Atra'Lamia's warbeasts, that and total, complete loyalty that nothing except death itself would break.

Resistance futile but that didn’t stop groups of militia trying. Villages razed to the ground and then the drippings of poison excreted from glands salting the very earth, from this toxic excretion black fungi growing, the only thing that would grow and in the future if any creature came across these poisonous fungi and touched or breathed a spore the taint would grow within, altering the victim, they would end up monstrous, transformed, poisoned beyond recognition, then the final affect would draw them to her legions. Another soldier for her cause, another creature to assist in the death of everything pure, another beast whose ravenous hunger would tear asunder the veils that existed in the mythology of Eden. Paradise... Pfft, paradise lost... when this was done, no matter how potent, no matter how powerful, nothing would redeem this land from the darkness befalling, and any creature stupid enough to attempt to defend would die a painful death, a sacrifice to the Goddess of death and pain. They could cry to their gods, they could beg for mercy, nothing would stop this onslaught except her word and... her word was...

KILL...

[The End of All Light.]

[align=justify:101051d578]Blades of hate grinned with macabre silver smiles in the puce twilight where even the skies ruptured to the slaughter. Reflecting every single droplet of blood as it trickled along razor-edged teeth; maddened from the mayhem laced in broken bodies and streams of inflamed vermillion. Only one of twisted mind could marvel in such scenes of destruction and death- only one of like-mind to her majesty could ever comprehend the magnitude of intention behind mass genocide; the method in the madness. Stirring within the blackness of her soul, she felt the reverence throes of sexual passion in Satire’s ritual, orgasm always was the secret pinnacle in ceremonial practice… one that the so-called Dark Priests and Priestesses under that insignificant whore Kalicity like to relish and brag about. No wonder they were labeled as nothing more than heretics and charlatans to the ‘real world’ and not the fantasy land she crafted from sand castles in the air.

There was much potency and potential in an orgasm that many actually failed to accredit let alone take knowledge of—all the power which was in their grasp failed and faded just as quickly as the rapid breath of excitement. Ah well, not every creature can be skilled in the arts of seduction as she; then again she had never blessed any with the exhilaration of her sacred flowers. Dawdling long enough on the heightening of Satire’s proclamation, her sinister acts of apocrathic elixirs, poisoning or numbing the senses to perform lurid acts of blasphemy and lust; Atra’Lamia knew she had not been selected in vain… then again, all of Atra’s real children had special qualities and inherents’ that made the average psychopathic sadistic look like child’s play in comparison. Satire was not one of her ‘actual’ child, only an adopted commodity given the affection which could be considered as a lover or motherly. Atra’Lamia never had a child or adopted child by the name of Kalicity Darkbane- despite her claims to the contrary.

 All Atra’Lamia had ever done was introduce the cretin to the folds of Darkbane… if any fool was Kalicity’s mother, who would be rested in the palms of Pandora and therefore the Goddess of Darkbane had that inhuman cross to bear. Atra had simply only done what every Darkbane was required to do, and that was bring fresh meat to the table. Far be it that this pathetic creature established some sick form of reverence, admiration through envy. It seemed the gossips of history filtering through the lands of Ayenee and Eden were well misinformed to the verge of ignorance with the death of Kalicity. None of it was news to Atra’s ears nor did she care to hear it, know it or sense it. The insect was nothing but dust drifting on the winds towards the ends of time, what a pity Colvin bred his children from the womb of possibly the lowest creature to have walked on two-legs… one that many had gone through. All that could be guessed was that in his old, stagnant age, his taste went with his appeal.

Traveling over the burnt ruined landscapes… bent and broken like the solemn boughs of every tortured tree where shattered, dismembered charred bodies hung. How their wrists in rope creaked and groaned while they swayed and twirled in the oncoming nightly tempest winds. Impaled forms twitching on their sticks like tormented puppets performing violent orgies in theatrical humor, moans accompanying the howls and shrieks of the whipping zephyr blowing the cold comfort of death to their sanguine-parched lips of chattering smashed teeth, dispirited by the fall of hundreds. No hero, no paladin or redeemer to save their souls. SHE was THE abomination before God’s eyes, not the painted devils and demons basking in the glories of other slaves and servant bidding to their disease… Atra’Lamia took her own initiative. Acting on her accord and decrees of will and want… passion and lust.

She needed no cohort at her side to ravish in the whipping of the human and inhuman races to her bidding, her impious servitude. They all were so easy to lead into temptation; it required no real extra persuasion. Coercion of sin and carnal lusts, no promises given and none granted that could not be obtained by their own gnarled, fouled hands and blades. She needed no coax to get them to speak and whisper her name with every squalid deed commitment under the black shadow of her banners. All were massacred who existed under the false signs of Eden, any reverence shown to that wretched impostor, Kalicity and her progeny… idols and altars smashed with the skulls of her very few worshippers. One the most part, it appeared that even her human hosts and servants loathed her appellation and name. The blight on the essence of all that was dark or considered dark when even evil abhorred the pretence of its moniker of alignment. Then again, their perception on ‘evil’ and what is ‘considered’ evil was vaguely … immature.

Time to consider and ponder these things, from insects to parasites and a decision on the vagueness of definition—Pandora herself had a fetal impersonation on the characterization of evil; reduced to magickal chains, flowers and butterflies… rendering the most heinous tasks to that of her feeble-minded servants, she guised as ‘children’. Whatever made the task more appealing? Whatever fancy title she wished to place on the crown of the fool to camouflage the hoax. None beneath the weak support of temple could be labeled with betrayal to oaths, not in the actual comparison of the meaning. To betrayed… one has to actually care or feel the emotion of hurt. The heart and all its strings were an easy instrument to be played and plucked, that is of course that the beholder has a heart, and not just the effigy of remembrance. To ‘feel’ emotion, one has to have had a heart in the first place—this does not always come into the equation of existence… creation can be a complex and wonderful gift to possess.

Hooves thundering beneath her taut form slightly held from the comfort of saddle, knees bent with bodice clinging to the arched nape of her juggernaut mount. Reigns held tight in her grasp while waterfalls of melanoid rubied obsidian flowed behind her sleek, sinuous structure. Attentions resting on the bristling of feathered ravenesque wings. Old friends always return fast, never to the tainted walls of another’s parlor… perchance that too would be a lesson drifted to the ears of the ‘unfaithful’. A decision one day they would live to regret, and die with that regret garland around their throats like red roses. Atra’Lamia did not need to observe that her companion was that of Uriel, or the murmured words traveling on the unfurled winds of discord to her perceptions… the earth-melded creature known as Adaghar. Another long acquired in the lands of Aoyn many years before, when Radu still ruled at her side. Such a shame her dark lover could not witness what was left in the aftermath… burnt crimson decay.


No greeting needed to be spoken towards Uriel, the Angel of Death- their alliance had long gone beyond that of mere words, and therefore none were required to be indulged in. Both journeyed swiftly to Eden, with all her legions instructed to follow behind her. War drums reverberating to the extremes of shaking the earth beneath dry, blood-quenched marching armors, metallic boots, chains and shields… banners held high in triumph… howling laurels tainting the storm- incensed lugubrious firmament. Continuing on, wiping out all that was in front of them, moving for no man, beast or mountain. No torches lit to announce the coming of her forces, only the blazing fires on leaving. To her evil had always been that creeping fear, not the thundering of bellows and long-winded announcements to incite fear and dread- evil should be an instant emotion, not one brought on by clumsy idiots pluming their ego with untrue trepidation… a bit like what most Darkbane’s were tarnished with. Now to Atra’Lamia they were all just food for thought, even that was an exaggeration on the importance they would pay in her imminent future.

Pandora’s ramblings of addressing Atra’Lamia only encouraged a shrewd simper to appear over her dahlia russet apertures, a darker gleam in the hearts of her diluted flambeaus, beaming with a planetary appetite for devouring… ”Indeed my little Lamb… my pet… you’ll wait your turn!” making no attempt to hide those few, earned words in regards to acknowledging the presence of Pandora. Even pushing them on with gentle manipulation, so that they would be heard by all who were damned under the mark of Darkbane where Pandora had unleashed her threats of the ‘Blood Hunt’ upon all those who denied her. How egotistical of the fruitless Mother, she should have been content with the few outcasts that tainted themselves to answer. Better be hunted than bow down to a worthless deity, confess their loyalty and lives to a false idol not even willing to give loyalty and to take life… a weak sham… just another fraud.

Cursed words would drift through the temple, hauntingly mocking to the senses and ears of the gathered flock- the sound acrid and parched, spitting with ridicule and deride of all respect- having the last laugh on the name of Darkbane without having to actually spit on the ground at Pandora’s feet. A rancid aroma uncurling from every orifice and crack within the temple, amorphous thorny-daggers scathing outwards and towards the flesh of Pandora… to mark and scar without granting any property to heal or vanish; it was a poison/an infliction unknown to the medicine and doctrine of this world. Unlike Atra, Pandora’s knowledge of toxicology had only ever been reachable by the means of the mortal world, by ‘known’ occult or biology- and since she was only newborn now to this world, much knowledge in ‘wortcunning’ and ‘toxicology’ had been lost to her, whereas Atra’Lamia’s knowledge derived from the Wamphyri and Lamia/infernal knowledge. There was in all contrast, a strong difference.

It was not an attack by desire to kill, nor was it strictly magick- just a manipulation of the elements and that of breath, a subtle influence in the nature of air, light and darkness with a hint of fire; and only with the target to usher a reminder, or more of an announcement that none of them were dealing with the Atra’Lamia they once knew, who did at one time know boundaries… now she knew of none. Pandora’s words may have been brave, but she saw beneath the façade, the masquerade of her perjure herself beyond that of normal observation. It was one of the many things Atra had become good at reading, having been around many falsehoods in the past… after a while, one becomes good at reading conviction and ‘hidden’ character. Pandora would easily thwart her little infliction should she still possess some mastery of the elements… it was not a ‘forced’ or ‘determined’ strike by any means.

Just a little gift to spark up their little party, some thing to serve as a gesture towards the child they all deemed petty enough to bother- seemed Darkbane’s these days resorted to the torment of children. What brave fiends they were. Such a shame they actually chose to torment one who had many gifts on returning the torment. They would learn soon enough. With the same uncouth evil coercion Atra had used to enter the temple, she withdrew it much the same. Arriving on the border to Eden, where angels and devils continued with their fight over mankind, and the kingdoms of heaven. Tonight her legions would not bed on the barren earth, this night they would take from the City of Eden whatever their black souls desired, be it riches, property, slaves, booze or whores; tonight would be theirs. And the blood and souls would her hers… her own private banquet for the consumption. Perhaps for once her hunger would be sated, but then again, perhaps it would only make her crave more… and much more after that. [/align:101051d578]

[Satire]

Moving away from the temple that had once been a place of joy Satire stopped as waves of raw, tainted pleasure washed over her slender frame. The Goddess knew... Atra'Lamia had acknowledged her worship as she ground herself to ecstasy in defilement of holy places. Her breath shuddering twixt the soft curves of blood red lip, misting in the eve's chill as the sudden thought of finishing this village off engulfed her every fibre. Superstition, what a lovely toy to play with in these uneducated peasants. Lips pursed in thought as she contemplated how best to give them a slow and painful death, their first indication something was wrong, would be too late to prevent. Darkness swirling around her lithesome physique like a cloak, a gift when she had chosen her path, turning away from the lore of her mother and grandmother to walk in a far more ancient and horrendous path. Her smile slowly forming as the thought hit her, how perfect, how appropriate.

Stepping through the darkness to where she had secreted her bag of goodie, rummaging through until she found what she sought. Smirking slowly as she had wondered about carrying such a large quantity of this powdered fungus, but the quantity of the dried mushroom was far more then sufficient for the needs of this village... Amanita phalloides or more commonly known the 'Deathcap Mushroom' One head, the death of a hale and healthy man, the contents of this bag the death of the village in entirety. Now how to use it? A moment of inspiration then setting off to find the millers residence, discovering to her joy the weekly grind completed that very night, ready for collection by the goodwives of the village on the morrow. The town would smell of fresh baked bread all morning, and by midnight the scent of corruption would be instilled. They would think it a plague, the final punishment by the Gods... Severe stomach pain, diarrhoea, then three days later apparent recovery, only to collapse and die within the week from failure of the liver and kidneys. Perfect, a slow and painful death to all from this one bag of flour like powder.

To work... Carefully opening each and every bag of flour, liberally sprinkling the fine white powder of her taint then thrusting a gloved hand into the top and mixing thoroughly. A single ounce of the desiccated material the equivalent to approximately thirty of the mushroom heads, enough to kill an elephant... and Satire had brought several pounds of this deadly flour. The top half of each bag tainted beyond imagination, then carefully sewing the bags closed again, no sign of anything ever happening. She knew villagers, she had grown up in a village similar to this and no matter what tragedy, baking day was baking day, except during the month of fasting. The befoulment of their temple, would not stop the baking of bread, people still ate, farmers, workmen, children, mothers still got hungry and bread above all things would be eaten. Satire's special spice however would make the bread just that much better. A week, they would all be dead, forgotten, accursed, what a lovely gift for her mistress.

Finishing her task, she then sprinkled the millers grinding stones liberally with the dust, it looked no different then the light coating of flour in case any milling still needed to be done, but she was certain, she had the feeling in the pit of her stomach this would be more then enough for her whim to succeed. Now she would simply fade from sight and wait. What point for every death if not for someone to reach amusement, for someone to cry her Goddess's name in pleasure, to moan aloud in ecstasy, in worship as the village was gripped by pain, fear, horror, hope and then... annihilation. Morning found the goodwives gathered to fetch their flour, two hours later, hot ovens opened to receive their first offerings, another half hour and the aroma of fresh baked bread filled the air.

The previous night may have confused and tormented them, but habit and hunger would kill them. Lunch approaching, and the poison imbibed in that meal, in six to fifteen hours, the first symptoms would hit, the sound of groaning as stomach felt like they would explode, curses muttered as men, women and children ran to shit, again and again. The next day, no movement as everyone in the village felt like their tripes were on fire, all bemoaning their god's desertion. All believing themselves cursed. The next morning, people moving, their stomachs miraculously better, believing themselves cured, going about their daily life, the pox having run its foul course. A little weaker, a little wiser or so they believed, life would go on... actually no... it wouldn’t. The toxins ingested, reacting on a cellular level, interacting with the bodies DNA, binding itself to the RNA and stopping it from forming the complex proteins that are needed for cellular survival. Cells starting to die, slowly at first then with greater rapidity, finally making its way to the kidneys and liver.

The first death a week to the day after baking day, an older man in prime condition, but not healthy enough to stand catastrophic kidney and liver failure. More deaths within hours, within the day a third of the village decimated. Two days, half gone. Prayers and pleading, fear, terror, the scents arising and with every death Satire uttering "For you beloved" to her Queen. Every death giving her urges and her hand constantly stroking her libido, she even entered one family’s house and sat masturbating in front of their horrified eyes as they struggled through their dying breaths. Deliberately she didn’t allow herself to orgasm, which would be saved for the final dying gasp of this village, instead she kept herself at a low boil, just off the plateau of pleasure. Men crying like babies, women wailing as their menfolk and children died, Parent bemoaning their babies deaths, then dying themselves.

After the second day, no one leaving their houses fearing plague, bodies lying where they fell, none cleaning them up. The heat of the village giving rise to the sick sweet smell of corrupted flesh, decay arising. Rats gnawing on the corpses and dying, cats eating the rats and dying, such a vicious circle of doom. Finally Satire made her way to the place where the last person laboriously breathed his final breathes, she stripped naked and entered his house, sinuously moving as his eyes captured her motion, left hand dipping down to firmly clench her most precious gift, tongue protruding to moisten her lips, making breathing an art form as her chest rose and fell. He managed to utter "Why" to this vision of desire her reply, a simple, cheeky “Why not!!!” and a giggle. Then with a slow, painful rattle he too died... Driving her nails into the moist soft flesh, her body, kept simmering for so long exploding in rapture as she screamed her release with one word "ATRA'LAMIA', letting go every tortured image, every wail, every torment the village had suffered, every agong exploding outwards... When finally she arose from her collapse on trembling legs, she would look and smirk, then casually dress and saunter whistling cheerfully away as Satire went looking for her next conquest in the Queens name.

[The End of All Light.]

[mod:c3ea9b348d][Update] From the post above. This is pertaining to what is going on in the temple with the action Atra made against Pandora. Plus it relates to the scene & atmosphere of Eden & Ayenee (in this time and era)/ the World-- so to speak.

I thought I had to elaborate on it just a little more so you all know what to expect... yadda yadda =)[/mod:c3ea9b348d]

[align=center]"...Return”
“…Seduction”
“…Speak not of death, unless you wish to see death”
"...I bring you storms of discouragement”[/align]

[align=justify:c3ea9b348d]The earth stood still upon the dunes of darkness. Dazzling sparks of diamonds stud the blackened horizon in a communal design of acrimony and loathing. No star more radiant than the next, no one brighter in radiance than another, an effigy of what was to come. The multiversity of worlds, planets and satellites shook and shuddered with the rectification of space and endless time, never-ending in it's quandary to rectify itself at the interference of balance and control.

Astronomers had said that space and time itself was a simple consciousness of all material matter spreading out and reaching to the ever-last that is oblivion, an affinity of chaos and the destruction of all that was past, and all that would be in the future. Heretics had been burned at the crooked stake, or beheaded by the blades before King’s for making such a suggestion that all life hung by a very frail thread. A thread that could easily be severed at any given moment without warning, cause or means of preventing it for the path was already chosen.

 Many things had brought it to pass. Death, decay, sin and corruption with all the curses mankind wrought on the world full of humanities sickness. The sky in its malignant swirling bespoke of the ending. Bespoke of the quandary life had become, cheap like a prostitutes perfume. Trading souls for possession, hearts for chains, it was no wonder a subjugate redeemer of sorts had been sent, to scourge the world of its disease. [/align:c3ea9b348d]

[align=center].....extinction of evolution…life…eating…away…at itself.....[/b][/align]

[align=justify:c3ea9b348d]Whispering words echoed through the reeds in the fields below. No wind had ever been as chilling as this, harshly raked in forked blades. Sounds whistling in the flurry shrill and piercing, some old haunted tune that bequeathed a sense of horror, dread, uncertainty. The blackness of the sky swallowing the moon and her potency, strangling the last light perhaps this world would ever see, except for the stars that now appeared more like eyes watching in the darkness.

Evaporation of oxygen weighing heavy on throat and lungs as humanity grabbed itself in a stranglehold. Pain and pleasure all a mechanism in the dying. All life struggles to live, but vanquishes its resources far quicker in the struggle, making it quicker… effortless. It would have been easier to just sit there, in the darkness, mouth gulping for air. Born into the world again, born to die. It was funny how when a mortal is born, they are not born to live but to die, the ticking clock passing through the numbers in mathematic palpitations. The fake heart striving to recapture time, already lost.

Darkness devouring, spreading black wings over the trembling land, enslaving it to a colder affection, a colder bliss. Sweeping in greedy strokes to gather the harvest, and then take them to a better place. At least it was an improvement, even to substandard levels, even if it was all a lie and the grass always being greener on the other side. Humanity had called to the heavens for a saviour, they should have been clearer on the prerequisites in request.[/align:c3ea9b348d]

[align=center]“…Rains of denial and defeat”
“… Tainted wines of poison”
“… Fields of rotting roses”
“…Oceans…of…crimson”[/align]

[align=justify:c3ea9b348d]Methodical winds forced the ramparts of the heavens to breach, blowing to form a cone-like axis, colliding in upon itself to form a cosmic implosion coiling into a singular accumulation, a cumulonimbus haze. The essence spreading outwards from the cone in a thick, bouillabaisse cloud. . Asphyxiating the heavens, engulfing the silhouetted horizon… one by the one the stars were distinguished, a snuffed libertine or rambled prophesy. Full moon embossed behind the thickening veil, hued now in a tincture of vermillion lustre as it bled through the miasma without veneration.

And why would it show such… veneration to those beneath it quivering in their temples while priests prayed their grovelling rites half in despair and half in awe. Frantic murmurings partially in curse and moderately in blessing, double-spoken in two-faced promises, where no man or beast was never too sure on what it was exactly soliciting in evocation ”Adore me! Adore me!” in lulled soft word whilst holding the dagger behind the back, lips forging a smile that could melt hearts or bring worlds to war. What a shame the price this time was far more than a few drops of blood.

Dialogue uttered, distinctly feminine- but held no real identity other than the cacophony of enchanted silver harps, brushing harpy-wings on stone. For some it would be, strange, unnoticeable while for an extreme select few, they would know who spoke them and whose presence was within the temple raking armoured fingernails down the granite of their tombs. A hint of manipulation here, a razor-adorned touches there, in the shadows as they raked along facial contours. For now the focus was on the woman sitting there basking in her inferiority. Thorny-kisses, darkened wishes and all would be revealed, in its due time. [/align:c3ea9b348d]

[align=center]“…Worlds of pain”
“…Stones of graves, tombs and milestones”
“…Skies of crimson, rain of blood”
“…Ruins of the crumbled temple you once knew”[/align]

[align=justify:c3ea9b348d]One should never speak of the Devil, for to the cause, her horns would always rise. Be careful what you wish for because in lack of choosing correct words, a wish can easily become an unholy blight. A bruise, a blemish on the perfection Pandora saw in her reflection, a mark of cinders to announce the shame hanging over her head like the swords of angels. None other would ‘see’ her form through the shadows, only the self-proclaimed Goddess would see that svelte figure in the shades of plethoric prisms. To see her, would be her choice, not the privilege of all sight, none were deemed worthy to marvel in her crimson splendour of old scores waiting to be settled.

A plague of locusts, serpents and spiders swarmed within the temple, yet none harmed her or scathed her flesh to nothing but ivory bone. Her children always had the precious gifts of damnation. That is why they had been chosen, selected to represent her and the magnificent darkness. A delicate stroke through those black cascades then over candied lips, to silence her from words, none were needed to be spoken, not to the likes of these. Wraith-like emanations billow around the tourniquet of black petals, pearlescent orbs searching through the ebony bandages that separated her from her place of dominancy and this infertile temple where only whores had ever seated.

Humility of course in her own respects for she had never rested on the throne, nor placed herself there in contempt- unlike so many. The sharp needle-point caress with the toxins of her own potency seeping from the fragments of scalpels, ”My little lamb… my pet… you shall wait your turn!” Such a phrase that could foretell all the collisions of the stars and planets, the universe eating itself to the inside out, leaving… nothing. Frozen in iced-scorn, if definition was studied, however in those words there was no emotion, just that cold reckoning being directed. Targeted on Pandora and only Pandora, something only she had the means to fight against, if she had the impudence and the skill.[/align:c3ea9b348d]

[align=center]“…What happens when you roses turn to crosses?”
“…Blood weaker than piss and water”
“…A mark, a crest of shame”
“… Who will you turn to, when there is no one left to turn to?”
"...I won't be there!"[/align]

[align=justify:c3ea9b348d]Choirs of verses extending from the mass, implanting their decay towards the mind willing to listen, willing to understand, willing to be silent. Scepticism rendered as the one true law in the hallow halls of Pandora’s mind, Goddess to Goddess, was it not? Would she accept this personal invitation or pretend to be brave in front of her slaves and consort? Questionable, but no longer her business, let them all dine on the scraps of another’s conquests… it mattered none to her. Let sleeping dogs lie for when they awaken, they always rise with fleas. A new motto perhaps, for now it suited her marvellously to the trick.

Let it be known that a true Goddess would never challenge another just on her grounds and terms. A true warrior would take the fight to where the fight was instigated. Not hide at the side of her lover, amongst the vermin proclaiming their ‘undying’ devotion. Empty words, fool Pandora for believing them. She herself had heard them time and times repeated. Now ‘feeling’ it around the temple only sickened her to the core and she spat on the mark that was Darkbane. Even saying it would feel like slime on the tongue, a bacterial infection of the throat, phlegm to be spat out, never savoured.

Only moments did she linger, giving only enough time to scathe the contours of Pandora’s face with shreds that would never heal, or have her empathic gesture thwarted. Maybe the sensation of blood on the fingers, tainting her armoury, sufficing all hatreds was all her desire? Then again to thwart it could bring a heavier penalty on her head, a bounty not prepaid to surrender? The choice would be Pandora’s, unlikely though she would chose it wisely… since she was not one known for brilliance of intelligence. Incorporeal here, corporeal in Eden, if Pandora had any real gall she would appear before Atra’Lamia and all her legions, to spit at her face… just like Atra was bestowing upon her now. Atra'Lamia was done running to her like the rest of the lost herd.[/align:c3ea9b348d]

[align=center].....Silence.....[/align]

[align=justify:c3ea9b348d]Back in Eden, before the ruined walls of the burning palace in rout - the skies open with an electric explosion of lightening as the thunder begins to rumble. Heaven’s gates in closing for God in all his perfection never did have the stomach for devastation or defeat. Ignorance for some was indeed bliss. An accolade of his denial, once again turning his back on mankind came with a price… the price and sacrifice of all the ages. Blood and the weeping of angels in the disguise of rain… crimson rain. The sound echoing from the thatches and wooden tiles of roofs, tarnishing the sandstone with splashes and splatters of that beautiful red.

Nigrescent eyes closed in her halt. Allowing the sensation of the cardinal salutations to sink in through the pores of her mocha-milky complexion, moisten the wayward strands of her hair. Wind-swept obsidian tussled in ringlets of iridescent black, slowly turning… a deep shade of garnet like blood swirling in a pond of midnight. Even the piceous hues of her leather seemed to fade out to a bright shade of crimson, glistening in the sleekness of downpour. ”I always loved thee in a shade of crimson” the husky voice spoke out from the depths of her mind. No longer the nemesis of darkness, instead now the saviour in crimson- a Goddess of blood; one they all had prayed for... in dreams and nightmares.[/align:c3ea9b348d]

[align=center].....The change of times had commenced.....[/align]

[Uriel]

In all the worlds, no longer would the Raven appear, many would think them suddenly extinct, excepting over the skies of Eden... Never before had the summons reached so far, nor so fast, never before had the inherent magic of these wily, intelligent birds reached through the void itself to draw them all to the place where their patrons existed. Millions, nay billions of the birds, turning the sky black in poor imitation of their mistress's hopes, blocking out all light from above in hues of black and green feathers. Their cries of worship loud, ear piercing, hungry for rotting flesh or if that was unforthcoming, sweet fresh flesh still warm from living bodies. Eyes a particular delicacy and animal or man, demon or angel could fall foul of the carnivorous wildness of these orthonological marvels. Any who stood against her were fair game for the mischief and hunger, the flocks so think that any creature falling in their path would be nought but a pile of bones in seconds, stripped of flesh before they would have time to scream.

He felt 'Her' Acknowledgement, no words needing speech for their ties of loyalty reached beyond the paltry efforts of conversation. Those who needed to talk rarely ever 'Did' but She, Atra'Lamia, the one being that served no master of either light nor dark persuasion never wasted breath on innocuous words. The effort was instead placed in action, but saying that, if she did deem to speak, one had better listen, for the words spoken would mean the difference between life and oblivion in layers of meaning so deep as to have no perceivable ending. His ancient legions moving in synchronicity to her vast armies, rusting armour, rotting corpses, broken weapons of those who had fallen, moving in readiness, no longer needing courage, knowing now the only thing left that could hurt them was disobedience to her cause. The ravens, hunting anything that moved that didn't bear the stamp of Atra'Lamia's authority, the dead seeking to regain honour in her service and to add to the dementia sweeping the land, the rocks themselves, stonework and mortar, combinations of his element, acting in a twisted pseudo-life crushing, crumbling, grinding any who befell their path.

His very touch creating gaping cracks in the earth, specifically beneath rivers, lakes and any source of water accessed by any but 'Her' chosen. Wells drying up as subterranean streams vanished into the earth below, lava and noxious fumes arising from deep within the earth to poison and lacerate the lungs, sulphurous miasma pouring outwards along with explosive gases simply awaiting the application of flame. And flame there would be, fire and brimstone, the likes of which those whom dreamed of hell could barely grasp. Shudders deep below as a core of molten rock pushed upwards, soon, so soon, it would burst beneath the tainted hovels where once the bitch pretender had claimed to rule, the heat would eradicate her touch once and for all, and soon the name Kalicity, whore... false goddess... thief and liar... queen of her own sad pathetic imagination would be gone, faded from memory along with her puppet friends, never to be spoken or remembered, wiped from history except to be recalled as the ultimate betrayer. Nameless, forgotten to exemplify what would happen to any and all who dared steal or lie to Atra'Lamia.

Uriel had turned his back on the omniscient to follow Atra'Lamia, he had thrown Lucifer into the abyss, stood alone against his brothers and Bath Kol in certain defiance, he had chosen to carry his dominion and place it within her grasp, to serve without question, to kill in her name instead of allowing nature to act then unbind the souls of the dead. No he had taken his aspect to the penultimate action, unbinding the souls of those not dead, letting loose the perfect morbidity upon all whom chose not to acknowledge her truth. Unfeeling, void of emotion excepting the desire to worship, to sacrifice, to follow her in all things. His voice, the crushing sound of worn gravel shouting out one word, to ravens, stone and dead alike... "KILL" his eyes black as midnights certainty, his wings raised in challenge of any daring to defy, his stride creating miniature earthquakes for although he was earth and death personified, the potency unleashed brought shudders to his element, it was simply too much and every step taken, left a mark, sterile, incapable of resolution, burned for all eternity in the name Atra'Lamia...