There was a shriek.
Yet, this shriek was not one borne of some immortal soul. No, it was not infernal in nature, as was the will that summoned this woman… this creature… this demon… this Goddess of men. Instead, it came from the mouth of a woman, human in nature. Shocked, as she was that the whispers in her mind had spoken true. Not that she doubted the will of her patrons, yet, even still there was always a manner of the suspicious amongst those that they chose to act as their agents in the mortal realms. Thus, did that shriek turn to a shout and then to a moan, thereafter replaced by a cackle worthy of its name.
The one who’d spoken the name, forgotten, forbidden perhaps in some corners, had spoken it with mortal lips yet with the cadence of two rather more infernal. Patrons that did not fear the gaze of the forgotten, and perhaps that which had best been left forlorn. Yet. . . if those self-same patrons had been of the sort to be so forgetful, so wonton, so. . . capricious, the witch may never have sought them out and thus denied them this rather. . . unique opportunity. For there was ancient power in the name she’d spoken, and indeed a great deal of preparation besides.
Thus, that shriek was not one of despair, but one borne of accomplishment. She’d been their agent for ages, had she not? Her own body ought to have crumbled to dust long before. She was only human, after all, was dear Moroch. Yet, others had chosen to answer her plea when her husband and sons had been called to war. When she’d asked for their souls they’d been given, and indeed, they burned bright in the candles set about the fire. Seven in all. A husband, and six children. Four daughters, and three sons, each called by some wretched warlord’s ambition. Yet, Moroch had had her vengeance hadn’t she? Oh, she had, upon hearing of their deaths.
An entity, a devil, not a demon as she’d been corrected many a time, had made it thus. Azshara. An avatar of vengeance and righteous fury. The souls had been given her, and she’d comforted them until this moment, for that was their bargain. Life everlasting for what she held dear in which she’d serve the great entity and her counterpart, everlasting.
It was thus, then, that she came to stand before this fire where she’d spoken the demon’s true name. Flames had roiled then, and it was not until they’d turned as black as night that she knew she was coming. It was not until she felt the chill, the dread that she knew her presence was there. The elder woman had blinked thrice, and could not still the chilling of her spine. Her patrons offered no comfort, but that had not been part of that bargain, as had not the others who lay prostrate around the fire, blanketed in shadow.
Sixteen there were, for this number was of great import to the grand lady and her other. Yet, now, as the demon spoke she saw them come back to being, the flames burning brother as each and every throat now regarded her with a red smile. Their blood flowed down, and each and every trail made its way to the flames, slowly, methodically.
In response to that, and indeed, in response to the demon’s words, what should have been eyes of deep, earthen brown looked up toward her with a golden hue. For indeed, it was not Morach who looked upon this creature of night, this vixen, this goddess. It was those who’d truly been interested in her presence, one rather more than the other. For even as she breathed out she could feel the heat of that, the heat of memory.
A memory that ceased suddenly and without warning.
Tendrils of crimson, of blood, reached the flames and thus they changed. A great wind manifested, yet it was without the natural touch for no trees budged, rather it was as if the flames moved of their own accord. They shifted from the black that had manifested in the momentary instance of Atra’lamia’s manifestation. Like a jeweler’s forge, they became gilded, yet too were they laced with a certain shade of red. As if blood had been splashed upon a goblet of gold. Indeed, the flames coughed and then billowed.
A shadow grew within. A feminine form. Not quite human, and yet not quite other. There were horns, and there were tresses, but these were not unknown to the entity that had been summoned by name alone. The figure reached forward. So too then, did the blood flow upwards, an unnatural current, to hover over her hand. Yet within that current, the Witch knew well that there was more than blood, for one such as she was not content with that.
Her currency was not borne by mortal death but by mortals themselves. Their souls.
The coin coalesced within that hand even before she did. Azshara, once consort to Mephistopheles, once wife to an errant baatezu lord of this mortal realm, Varsinax, stepped forward. She was regal, her skin red yet adorned with eyes of gold, horns of onyx with tresses of the same.
Behind her the witch smiled, one eye returning to the darkened state, while one remained as golden as it was before. Yet, for the moment she edged back as if most amused by the scene. As if she was witness by the will of another.
“Perhaps,” said the one that had just stepped from the now dwindling flames, “I have a bargain for you, my old friend. One to bring us both back to the folds of eld.”