It Is Time

[GhostofAzshara]

“Atralamia.”

She whispered the word. She held out her hand, and so did the chain manifest. It coiled around her digits, and she gripped it. The word, the name ahd been spoken. She remembered well the demons’ name. Seh could hear teh beat of her hart, just as readily as she recalled her true name. Ebon lashes fluttered as she reached out the hand. It was time. Yet, as she spoke th words, she was not a demon, was she? She was something more and something less.Nevertheless, she steeled her will. She would summon her. It was time.

“Come to me.”

 

[Dyshanka]

There are some secrets better left buried, for to unearth them would bring the world down in flames.

Entwining like stars in the sky, all roads eventually lead somewhere and just as one path might intersect with another, so too did the planes of existence converge upon a single point in space. It was here, at the very apex of life, where the Astral plane dwelt and though many a traveler whispered it was where Gods went to die, in recent years it had undergone a dramatic transformation. Where once there had been vast expanses of silver, the heavens were now scorched black and what little solid matter remained now bore the scars of eternal agony. Perched aloft a throne of skulls, the new lord of the domain had turned Blackheilm cities into nightmarish reflections of her black heart, reducing once proud creatures into little more than slaves to fuel the endless slaughter her black legions wrought. Carving bloody swaths across the veils of the starless ebon-tapestries.

The Blood Raven, the arch priestess of Ayenee and matriarch of Darkbane, monarch of both Eden and Tenaria, Atra'Lamia as she was known, an enigma by most mortal and immortal standards, whose thirst for bloodshed had lead her from the droll lands of Ayenee to the nightmarish endless pits and back again, but despite millennia of conflict, Atra had not forgotten certain alignments, afterall. Nigrescent tendrils wallowing light like the famished would a meal, twin opals of obsidian gazed longingly across the kingdoms of man, piercing the veils between reality with their sheer intensity as their monarch patiently waited for the wheels of fate to grind full circle. Time held no meaning in this place, for the seasons came and waned unfelt by its denizens, and yet when events had set into motion finally came to fruition, it felt as if a weight had finally been lifted when a bitter-sweet pain wracked her lithe body. Transcended above even the Titans in power, the decadent deity seldom experienced suffering, but when the lines carved into her chest ignited in fire, a masochistic moan rolled from black-hued lips and echoed throughout the obsidian halls of her unholy domain.

With every eddy and churn in the atmosphere, smoky tendrils of shadow and equilibrium of moon-fire and darkness seemingly giving unto each others properties and darkest whims. Blending perfectly to form the mystique and sinister ribbons gyrating around this broken and battered mortal place called Ayenee. Energies spinning faster on the outside yet indeed calm and tranquil within the eye of its zenith, like the eye of the storm- that soft dainty hand exploring the features of metal beneath coat. Enjoying that cold rapture from the palm of her hand, wrapping around the hilt in nefarious grasp yet so gentle at the same time. No effort would be made to remove her hand from that embrace although it provoked Atra to take a step closer... and closer again.... to the conjurer. Amongst the rubble of broken rock and debris... so close, hand and heart enraptured by this dark libertine of elucidations and scene of destruction. Basking in the shredding horror befalling a world. The walls of mortal reality being stripped away piece by fleshy piece as if flaying the nightmarish world from the back of an abysmal Leviathan. Worlds crumbled, hemorrhaged, inverted, gnawing upon the tail of its own bitter end as the worlds of darkness untied in a perfect tryst like lovers beneath the black silk matricide, like parent flesh shifting to birth a land of darkness, plague and ashes.

Beneath the billowing veils of ravenesque and silvered strands those black emotionless eyes would stygian peer. Peering out across the land in a static effervescence, daggers reflecting and portending from those unfathomable orbs bearing nothing but the cursed revelations yet to follow. Marking the world in the crux of diabolic intent and the blackest of intricate magics- spinning those ebony webs of reaping atrocities. Chaos spat from the wombs of Utopia- storm choirs gathering in a pestilential choking. Hissing sound awaiting for the blackened and brooding skies to burst open like a knifed orifice, and drown the sin from the ivory towers of Saturn. Rapturous energies crashing against the elements like a thousand suns dying. Grinning, unfurling winds of hatred harmonizing with the screams of blasphemy and the howling of worlds colliding, a fury rousing the disease of biblical litanies before sending flames hurling towards the unprotected masses as they attempted to flee or run for shelter.

What Gods had rained such terror?

What Gods would tear the firmament asunder to wreck havoc and torments upon the faithful swine that had done nothing but serve? When in reality, nine were unmarked by sin. Corruptive Vis generated by the energies of this sovereign were of far darker spheres than most she had ever crossed, and whom had now created these diverse effects over the lands of Blackheilm. Darkness seeping slowly into the realms beyond. Bleeding the darkness like one would remove a cancerous abomination from flesh and bone; though this darkness had now struck its roots deep into Ayenee, corrupting the very earth, strangling the earth mother slowly but surely- until even she lay still. The realm still as if no life remained except for the bloodcurdling screams in ascension from the cities and countryside- those whom accompanied this destroyer which sparked so much intrigue within the labyrinths of torturous mind. The people screamed to the skies, hands pleading in gesticulated motion, as if that would bring down the sword of justice and protect the lands from these foul malignant beings which held no heart, save for the death of whom they saw fit to point a finger upon. Cries arose of abandonment, the fleeting hope of salvation- the tattered remnant of faith slowly oozing from the cavities of realization for what Goddess would allow such suffering?

What Goddess would allow the cremation of alive infants, writhing and contorting in defiance of the very flames which licked along the soft succulent limbs before melting them like wax. Their twisted facades of torment bent into hellish expressions, flesh peeling away from bone as the fatty substance evaporated over scorching coals leaving nothing but black smoke and the stench of burning corpses. Death was perfume unto her senses. Beauteous features lifted, chin pushing upwards inhaling that sweet, astringent fragrance- exuberating in it as if basking in the ambiance of the summer's sun. Nostrils flaring slightly as air rushed in to fill those infernal lungs, pumping the energies throughout her entire form before allowing it to leave in a wintry exhalation. Frosted tendrils dancing into the tempestuous atmosphere....kissing the frosted tongues and intermingling into a sinister parody of lover's tango- spiraling like miniature tornado's before evaporating only to welcome yet another invitation to such a haunting dance.

Every summoning, every call of her name demanded sacrificial glorification.

Death blossomed, its black hankering wings unravelling to gyrate within the very atmosphere. Colliding against the elements as they cashed upon the mortal shore inwardly. Rearranging not just the physical appearance of the realms but also the molecular structure of the very atmosphere creating a heavy and jagged effect, oxygen harder to inhale and fill the lungs. Instead it would cause pain- like pins being pierced through lungs with each inhalation and exhalation. Such essences of power released into the atmosphere would indeed provoke a sense of change in every other being within its radius. There was no place to hide within the shattered remains of what remained, leaving the tenebrous embrace of shadow, Atra would stand in full view- her diminutive figure draped in the same hue of darkness which now swept in like a brooding tempest eclipsing the very natural elements of the world, speaking to the one whom had spoken the once slumbering epithet. "Amusing is it not?"

The word sung so profoundly through dark vermillion lips tinctured with the blood of opiate puppets; simply there because it was within her will. But this event would not inspire any desecration of another's influence- dust covered boots scuffing against the rubble as she motioned through the ruins and broken citadels. Delicate hand leaving the cold embrace of hilt only to extend outwards, as elongated fingernails traced the symbols of archaic lore inscribed upon smashed remnants. Lithe physique swaying with a serpentine pendulum motion as the first influence of what any could determine as a confident voice, one that demonstrated familiarity, at least. This caused her attention to directly shift and compel her to gaze upon the woman.

A breathless murmur escaping twixt lips in heinous luster, as tongue swept to place moisture causing them to shimmer within the half mitigated light of the pylon where Atra rested. A whisper was flung to the elements in which would cause those words to drift in salacious dulcet tones for any to hear should they care to listen, a synchronized cacophony of sirenous timbre; coercing an answer. "And here I was thinking these halls were finally silent..." Shadows trembling where they extended out from their coffers of flesh and bone. Their stillness more terrible than the Wraiths, whose rent claws tore somnolent warriors limb from limb. Strange melodies existed in the wind; reality itself collapsed within a thin veil of black breath; oblivion itself gaping like a ruptured orifice in its ravenous vitriol. Streams of zibeline ebony flowed to conceal flawless monochromatic beauty, except those lustrous asphodel lanterns glaring out from behind cascading aphotic mantles of darkness.

"I am but an old fiend, so why is it that you plucked such a name as mine from your memory?" ​

 

[GhostofAzshara]

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.”